Bigger.

Bigger means something to me.

In July 2023, I was living in the UK, having moved from the South to the Midlands for a fresh start in a city where I knew no one, but which was cheaper than London. I was applying for jobs, optimistic in the quiet, determined way you are when you have no real alternative.

I felt particularly confident about one application and was invited to interview shortly after. But as I left the building, a sinking feeling settled over me. Something the interviewer said (which might have read as a compliment to someone unfamiliar with the conversational undertones of British professional culture) made it clear that I had not managed the delicate, exhausting performance of making myself small enough while still demonstrating just enough competence to be considered safe.

The more I ruminated on it, the more a certainty of rejection washed over me in the summer heat as I stood at the bus stand trying to fight off the tears welled up in my eyes before the next bus arrived. It was in this frame of mind that I reached for my weekly playlist which was a rotation of songs I curated every week for commutes and walks around the city. Black Is King had been featuring prominently that season.

As the bus arrived, Beyoncé’s voice came through my earphones:

“If you feel insignificant / you better think again / Better wake up because / You’re part of something way bigger…”

By the time she reached “Life is your birthright”, something had shifted. I was okay.

I understood, with a clarity that only comes when you stop fighting a feeling, that the place I had just interviewed at was probably not right for me. The rejection, when it came, would not be a verdict on my worth. It would be a redirection.

The rejection was, in fact, freedom.

Two Roads, One Homecoming

What strikes me now, returning to both works with more matured and empathetic eyes, is how differently each one offered me something I needed and they both formed a complete portrait of what it means to come home to yourself.

Black Is King gave me kinship. Watching it again as a migrant in Britain three years after its release, far from the landscape and the people that made me, it offered what I can only describe as communal power: a reminder that identity is not something you lose when you cross a border. It is something you carry, and more importantly for me at that time, something that carries you. Its Afrofuturist visual language insists on the dignity and mythic grandeur of Africa and the African diaspora at a scale that feels almost corrective: a deliberate refusal of the smallness the world so often assigns us.

Lemonade, released in 2016, offered something different and more interior. On the tenth anniversary of its release (April 23), I was Beyoncé’s exact age when she made it and that fact lands differently than it might have a few years ago. When I first encountered the album, I did not fully understand the extent to which she was opening a window onto Black female interiority, or how much of what I saw there I would later be able to name in myself. Now, revisiting it, I see it for what it is: a blueprint for personal transformation, and a map of the long road back to yourself.

As a curator, programming them together in a double screening forms a kind of diptych: the interior and the exterior, the wound and the inheritance, the self and the lineage. Lemonade asks who broke me and how do I heal? Black Is King asks who made me and what am I carrying forward?

Together, they suggest that both questions are part of the same conversation and that we have always been the ones holding the space for it.

That is what we are gathering to do tomorrow May 16th.

The Viewing: Edition II — A Ritual in Image & Sound

Her Personal Curriculum presents an intimate screening experience: both visual albums, curated, in sequence, with a Nigerian snack board and a signature cocktail designed as part of the experience.

📅 Saturday, May 16th | 3pm (3.5 hours)

📍 Joydragger’s House, Lagos

🎟 click here to get your tickets at ₦12,000 ₦10,000 — all inclusive

Come ready to dance, feel good and celebrate yourself.

I think journalling saved my life.

But first I had to overcome the fear of someone else finding and reading it.

This was such a crippling thought, that a presumption had calcified in my mind:

I wasn’t a “ diary/journal person”.

Surely not.

Not after my parents found a preteen diary I had at twelve years old for all of two weeks before its great reveal (or did I have the diary for a month? event details post-lashings are often foggy).

Not after a French therapist suggested I write and keep a journal as a way of processing complicated thoughts about my father’s death during a particularly fragile week where breathing seemed like a labour too much to ask of my mind, and my body could not hold space for life.

And certainly not after I had gotten spiritually exhausted from harsh winters, rainy days, not-so-minuscule microagressions, or being asked where I was from for what seemed like the millionth time, and why my English was “so good” for an African…..

But I did in-fact start journalling that January and kept writing everyday since. I would write about how many smiles I had encountered for the day and the joys of a warm smile.

I would write about tough times but also my dreams for the future. This journal became my therapist of sorts, a self-directed intervention technique for when I had big feelings and needed to process them, my map into my tangled world of hurt, joy and a little girl inside waiting to be released through those sheets of paper on a notebook I bought at half-price from a Christmas sale.

Act II: Documenting Women

Through my personal writings and reflections I decided last year, to post more on TikTok.

I made these long-form videos about media I was consuming, using them as tools to discuss timely issues or to simply make observations about my life.

Then a follower messaged me and advised that I create a Substack as my content favoured textual long-form content and I could flesh out my ideas.

As it turns out, my videos often got bookmarked due to the density of information and video length. I took the advice and went to work.

While that writing process was aided by a lot of factors from a technical standpoint (years of academic writing and copywriting for brands), it became apparent that my journal writing had been a spiritual release needed to usher in this process and provide clarity to my mission.

So a few days into March this year, I decided to create a social content project themed, “28 Days of Nigerian Women”. It was a series of posts about pioneering Nigerian women across sectors and history. Each post had an on-screen text written as a quote (fictionalised) from the woman being highlighted, detailing her accomplishments in conversational language. I had not felt so alive, so invigorated and so angry all at once: we as women had contributed so much to all sectors of Nigerian life and yet sidelined into domestic, politically neutral or completely inaccurate narratives in a country where the current generation of Nigerian women seemingly needed a limitless supply of courage and self-trust just to survive.

Writing in my journal was textual testimony to my resilience and storied evidence that any worries about my future was best alchemised into loving myself and experiencing life in the present. It was also a way to find patterns in the past connecting ancestral memory as a West-African woman, Nigerian woman, Yoruba woman.

The more I wrote, the more I awakened a creative bravery and soon writing felt like a homecoming: I have been worthy from the first moment I took my first breath.

I can do this (whatever “this” was). I was home.

Act III: Curation as the practice of witnessing

My experience with the curious curating workshop started before the first session. I saw an instagram post from the Didi Museum’s page about a series of Curator workshops that would be facilitated by an American curator named Robin Ruskin currently based in Ghana. It seemed like an interested proposition, this two weeks where we would converge from multiple disciplines and I proceeded to fill the form. I was shortlisted for the interview where I spoke about my writings and general thoughts on art and community, the rest is history.

What I started with no expectations, morphed into one of the best two weeks of my adult life. I was able to see how curation is an act of care: care for people, care for communities, care for ancestral technologies. There are many ways I have been transformed by this experience and will need to decompress from the emotional heaviness that I’ve carried throughout this period of transformation. For now however, we have created from our experiences, a group exhibition showing our reflections from the workshop and various works-in-process by artists, writers and curators (like myself) that participated in this event. Friends, family members and industry stakeholders were invited to our forest of possibilities which we grew and nurtured over these two weeks.

“A zine (/ziːn/ ⓘ ZEEN; short for MAGAzine or FANzine) is a magazine that is a "noncommercial often homemade or online publication usually devoted to specialized and often unconventional subject matter".” - Wikipedia

From allegorical frameworks explaining the curatorial practice, to a session on family heirlooms where I spoke about my father (for the first time in years, publicly at that), to car rides with a group of amazing women artists, writers, curators, to the idea of curating in a multimodal format which birthed a zine, we experienced (in a spiritual and psychological sense) a deep, intentional presence to our own experiences, emotions, and truths as creators.

Through the zine - an ode to girlhood, womanhood and community - we honoured our humanity by letting the workshop experience live in the pages of our creative output and shape our being.

What a sacred thing to witness.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to watch something properly.

Most of what I’ve been exploring through HER PERSONAL CURRICULUM has lived digitally through writing and my quiet reflection. But there’s a limit to what can be experienced individually.

Some things shift when they’re shared.

So I’m hosting the first edition of something I’m calling THE VIEWING.

A small, intentional gathering centred around film, maybe books, perhaps a podcast episode we can’t stop talking about.

A shared presence.

Of noticing.

Of seeing differently.

For this first session, we’ll be watching a curated preview of BLK NWS: Terms & Conditions by Khalil Joseph. It’s a nonlinear, experimental film celebrating the creativity of the Black Diaspora and Africa that moves through archival footage, music, and fragmented narrative. Adapted from his renowned video art installation, the film mirrors the sonic textures of a record album and is divided into 21 “tracks“. This free screening of the film will take place in April and show the first 7 - 10 “tracks” of the film.

Considering Khalil’s career, the unique storytelling style of the film isn’t surprising.

He directed iconic videos for artists like Kendrick Lamar (”m.A.A.d.”), FKA twigs (”Video Girl”), and Beyoncé (”Sorry,” “Love Drought,” “All Night” from Lemonade), for which he received Emmy and Grammy nominations.

I have had this film on my watchlist as part of my 2026 media board and I welcome the opportunity to watch this with you.

This isn’t a large event. It’s a private screening in Lagos with 10 spots available.

—

📍 Surulere, Lagos

🗓 Friday, 10th April

🕒 6:30PM

🎟 Free, click here (RSVP required)

Bring snacks, drinks, and whatever openness you’re willing to arrive with.

—

If you’ve been reading, following, or thinking along similar lines, this is an invitation.

Share HER PERSONAL CURRICULUM

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REGISTER FOR BLKNWS - A PREVIEW

My TikTok and Instagram get the first glimpse: behind the scenes, in-process thoughts, and the fragments that don’t always make it into the essays.

If you’d like to follow along more closely, let’s connect there.

Here is a list of all my posts this month (from the latest):

Her response to this was not to perform wholeness she did not have, instead she went to therapy, figuring things out incrementally. She was honest with herself about what her body needed to relearn, and she found ways to do that relearning on her own terms. There is a radical honesty in how she discusses this that is both unusual and important: she refuses to allow the damage to be invisible, but she also refuses to be defined by it. She has a husband who sees her fully and has not required her to pretend. She has children. She has, by her own account, turned lemon into lemonade, using the metaphor as a precise description of what it means to insist on a life that is yours despite everything that was done to it.

She is also clear that healing is not the same as being fixed. Izzy was diagnosed with PTSD and still carries what Italy did to her. But she has made something out of this heavy burden, and she has done it without waiting for an apology from anyone.

“Protect a Girl Child”: Institutional Accountability and What Justice Actually Looks Like

Seven years after arriving in the UK, Izzy wrote three letters: one to the UK government, one to NAPTIP (Nigeria’s National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons), and one to the Oba’s palace in Benin. The UK responded within two weeks, informing her that the government spent five million pounds annually to support anti-trafficking efforts in Nigeria. Nigeria however, did not respond. Izzy has not forgotten this.

Her position on NAPTIP is not hostile so much as precise: according to her, they are not doing their job and they know it. The load is too large, the resources too small, the structural incentives too misaligned. What Izzy wants from NAPTIP is not a press release. She wants them to sponsor her book which she describes as a full-length account of her experience, and proposes that her book should be distributed to every girl child in Nigeria. She believes, and has said confidently, that this proposed book would do more to create awareness and protect girls than anything NAPTIP is currently doing. As it would be coming from a trafficking survivor, someone that has “been there”, she may be right.

When people respond to her videos by blaming her mother for what happened to her, Izzy points out something so obvious it should not need saying: she has a father. He is alive. He is, in fact, living with her in the UK and yet no one is making videos blaming him. This is the gendered logic of accountability in action prevalent in Nigerian online discourse. By our society’s logic, when something goes wrong (particularly with a child), the nearest woman is held responsible. Her mother, who has since died, has been posthumously tried in TikTok comment sections for the actions of traffickers. Her father has not been mentioned. This, Izzy sarcastically declares, tells you everything you need to know about what Nigerians mean when they call men the protectors and providers of their families.

On a larger scale, the accountability she is asking for is not symbolic. She is asking the Nigerian government to do its job. She is asking adults in Nigerian communities across Europe who see young migrant girls in obvious distress to intervene: to call the police, to speak up, to stop being convenient witnesses. She is asking people to stop performing outrage in comment sections and start asking what it would take to actually stop this. Italy, she says, is just the tip of the iceberg.

She has been talking about her experience for seven years on social media. This recent series of TikTok videos that brought her to wider attention is an act of extraordinary patience with a world that has been slow to listen. Izzy Ogbeide survived something that was designed to consume her, and she came out the other side not diminished but clarified. She knows what she wants to say. She knows why it matters. And she has, in her own words, absolutely no time left for the people who never protected her telling her how she is allowed to speak about it now.

For me, Women’s History Month 2026 has been a sober one.

I have been sitting with the particular weight of being a Nigerian woman at a time when the failures of Nigeria towards its women, towards its girls, feel less like aberrations and more like policy. These failures do not begin at the national level. They begin in the family home, in the silence of a father who is never blamed, in the education a girl child is the first to be pulled out of when money gets tight, in the dreams of living “abroad”, away from home, that is dangled in front of young women as opportunity and is sometimes something else entirely, mirroring or amplifying terrors young women try to get away from back in Nigeria. They accumulate through communities that shame survivors and protect perpetrators, through religious institutions that preach female submission and male authority, through a government agency created specifically to address trafficking that cannot be moved to respond to a letter from one of its own citizens. The failure is systemic and it is intimate at the same time, living both in big structures and in the small, everyday decisions of ordinary people who look away.

I know something about the immigrant life in Europe. Not Izzy’s life, but enough of the texture of it to recognise what she is describing: the way the diaspora can close around you like a second country with its own rules, the transactional nature of belonging, the exhausting gendered performance of being fine. What I did not have, and what I want to name plainly, is what Izzy had to survive before she got to any of that. She arrived in Europe as a child and was immediately consumed by a system built on the disposability of young Black women. That she emerged from it with this much clarity, this much insistence on her own story, this much love for herself and for the girls who came after her, is no small feat.

To conservative, misogynistic, sexist, androcentric Nigerians, Izzy Ogbeide is polarising. She is too loud, too explicit, too unrepentant, too unwilling to be quiet about the things we are all supposed to be quiet about. To me, she is perfect. She is the fullest possible expression of what it looks like when a Nigerian woman who was given every reason to disappear decides, instead, to stay visible.

This essay is my small act of bearing witness to her. And to all the women like her whose tenacity holds up more of this country than the country has ever held up for them.

Read Part 1 of this two-part series here:

In the video, “Izzy” (as she is fondly called), rejected any sympathy from her viewers for her experience and charged them to focus on young girls currently being trafficked all over the world, citing a recent example of someone trafficking young girls to Kuwait. She mentioned her healing journey and instead directed her audience to help young girls around them, chastising the Nigerian community for a culture of bullying young girls and even stigmatising them after sexual assault. In a predictable fashion, her comment section was divided: some praising her for her bravery, others chastising her for not having any privacy and accusing her of “enjoying” her trafficking experience. But as I would come to learn about Izzy, she is truly a courageous woman who has not allowed her life to be defined by others and instead has shown up for herself with authenticity, love and sometimes, a bit of dark humour. While I have experienced the immigrant life in Europe, my story differs from Izzy’s in many aspects. I do however strongly identify with her perspective and experience on inter-gender relationships within the European diaspora, the cyclic nature of workplace abuse abroad, and the complicity of immigration policies in making Black immigrants susceptible to exploitation within their communities.

I hope that by shining a light on Izzy’s story through this essay, you the reader, are able to find courage to push past difficult circumstances, to seek justice, and to find your voice unapologetically.

“They Like to Carry Children”: How It Happened

Izzy was seventeen years old and had barely travelled outside her home state when someone she trusted gave her a set of instructions and a ticket. She was a teenager from Benin City, and like many girls recruited into trafficking networks through Nigeria’s south-south corridor, she was young enough to seem manageable and old enough to be moved across borders without arousing immediate suspicion. She flew from Nigeria to France, where a connection was waiting, and was then rerouted on a second ticket to Italy. The instructions were simple: walk straight off the plane and wait to hear your name. Follow whoever calls it. She did exactly that.

What happened next would consume seven years of her life.

This is not an unusual story; and that is precisely what makes it so devastating. Izzy has noted, matter-of-factly, that sex traffickers prefer young girls. Some of the girls she knew in Italy had their ages falsified to make them easier to move. The entire operation ran on logistics and compliance strictly mapping out flights, connections, handlers, instructions delivered in stern, threatening voices to children who had no framework for understanding what they had been delivered into. The violence was not always spectacular. Sometimes it was the slow grind of having no choice: being told to block your period and go to work regardless of the pain, having a “madam’s relative” stationed at your workplace to monitor and report back everything you did, seeking help from Nigerian men and being told that the only alternative to sex work was drug trafficking - a path that if caught by the authorities would mean prison. Taking a ritualistic “blood oath” back home and being threatened with harm to yourself and your loved ones back home. The trap was total.

Her words about the physical reality of that period are some of the most arresting in the entire series. She describes various forms of reproductive abuse including having to stuff cotton balls into her uterus to block her menstrual flow and being forced to drink dangerous substances including copious amounts of alcohol to abort pregnancies. With no duty of care and a constant looming threat of physical and/or sexual assault, the girls were disposable to these traffickers.

The Men Who Watched and Said Nothing

One of the things Izzy returns to repeatedly, and with a specific, focused anger, is the role of Nigerian and African men as bystanders who profited from proximity to the women they claimed to love or desire, while offering nothing in return. She is not speaking broadly or theoretically. She is speaking from a very particular experience of what community looked like to a young Nigerian woman navigating sex work in Italy.

There were the men who stayed home with the babies while their partners went out to work, then spent the money and supplemented it with contempt, simultaneously holding religious standards over their women. They shamed these women as sex workers while using their financial resources to take care of their families back home. There were the men who travelled across Europe and built businesses, bought land, funded various construction projects back in Benin - all of it, she says bluntly, built on “ashawo money”. The wealth was laundered through respectability but in the eyes of the community led by these men, the women who generated it were not. Anecdotally, she recalls being stranded at an airport, trying to exchange pounds, and it was two Senegalese men who helped her. Not a single Nigerian man.

In contrast (not in a subservient or glorifying way), she makes an important distinction about white male clients here. Within the transactional world she was forced to inhabit, Izzy recalled that the men who treated her and women like her with the most basic human decency were often not from her community. The men from her community knew exactly what she was doing, sometimes created the conditions that kept her doing it, and still felt entitled to judge her for it. This, she says, is what she means when she calls them “disgusting”. The hypocrisy is not incidental, it is structural. It is what it looks like when patriarchy extracts labour from women while denying them the dignity of naming that labour honestly.

She is also careful to extend this critique to the broader social ecosystem around trafficking. The women who recruit and manage other women (the “madams”) are not exempt. Izzy describes knowing a woman who had been in Kuwait for barely a year before she began trafficking girls from her home state. The pipeline does not only run through men. It runs through anyone with proximity to power and a willingness to use other people’s vulnerability as a resource.

The Body After: Trauma, Healing, and Relearning Pleasure

Izzy arrived in the United Kingdom at twenty-three, having spent seven years in Italy. She claimed and was successful granted asylum. Recalling her asylum interview, she insists that she did not cry, making this choice deliberately as she did not want the people who had trafficked her to win. She wanted it on the record in her own voice, not filtered through the conventions of victimhood. She has since said that she was never in any doubt about how her application and testimony would be received, because according to her, “You don’t have to have a good memory when you’re telling the truth”.

But this was the start of a completely different challenge for Izzy..........

(PT. 2 of this two part essay will be published soon)

Update (PT. 2):

A few weeks ago, I shared an excerpt from a work-in-progress essay on Lagos and the idea of “third spaces.” Many of you read it, shared it, and sent thoughtful messages about your own experiences of the city.

I’m happy to share that the full essay has now found a home with Unruly Magazine.

The piece is, in many ways, a love letter to Lagos and my complicated relationship with the city. But it is also an attempt to document a cultural shift happening in real time. Across Ikoyi, Victoria Island, and Lekki, a new ecosystem of curated social spaces is emerging: part gallery, part café, part community hub. The essay traces how we got here: from early social spaces like Stranger Lagos, Wèré House, A White Space, to the present moment shaped by the city’s increasing cultural capital, its relationship with the Nigerian diaspora, post-pandemic behavioural shifts, and a new generation of adults trying to rebuild forms of gathering that feel meaningful.

Like most of my writing, the essay sits somewhere between cultural observation, memory work, and media analysis. I was interested in how culture forms quietly around us: how cities teach us who belongs, where we gather, and what it costs to participate.

Thank you to the team at Unruly for giving the essay a home and for the thoughtful editorial care.

If you read the excerpt here earlier, you can now read the full essay online at Unruly.

And if it resonates, feel free to share it with someone who has tried to make a life (or a community) in Lagos.

This month brought me a gift.

I saw with my eyes and felt in my heart, life dancing with me.

Pace over speed, excellence over validation, routines over deadlines.

I enter into a season of self-trust,

I release myself from the confines of fear and into the limitless world of abundant possibilities.

Failure cannot find me.

What is failure really? Only discovery and synchronicities.

Am I not the universe dancing through time?

I embrace movement,

I embrace the rising tide of prosperity which lifts my community and whose waves bring me ease.

I embrace ease.

I embrace flow.

I embrace myself.

As we ushered in the Lunar New Year (the year of the Fire Horse) I made the decision not to make a vision board; something that previously had become an annual tradition.

The vision is already clear.

I know what kind of woman I am becoming. I know the texture of her life. I know the rooms she occupies. The conversations she entertains. The standards she refuses to lower.

I did NOT need a collage to remind me; what I need is a world that either validates that vision or sharpens it.

So instead of a vision board, I built a media board.

I want to be clear about this, a media board is not a watchlist.

It is a curated, thematic selection of films and television I intend to consume across the year. It is deliberate. It is modular. It evolves as new projects are announced. What initially started as a question on my tiktok about how to consume media with intention, morphed into a notebook list of films and television projects I felt inspired by or curious about, arranged into themes that are important to me, structured in a spreadsheet and translated into a visual board.

In doing this, I created my cultural syllabus. Because media is not neutral; every film teaches you something about the world around you. Films teach you about ambition, love, womanhood, the dynamics of power and so on. What you watch can teach you about what is rewarded and what is punished, whose voice is lifted and whose is silenced.

Media also opens your eyes to new worlds, allowing you to travel far beyond what your material circumstances can allow and sometimes, sometimes giving you a better contextualisation of the interior lives of others than you would have by sheer in-person witnessing. As a twelve year old girl watching Ousmane Sembene’s Faat Kiné, I was able to understand sexism and interfaith romance in contemporary Senegalese life. Through the relatability of Tunde Kelani’s Saworoide, I witnessed the use of allegory as a plot device and a tool of dissent, gaining a better understanding of how the vestiges of Nigeria’s colonial terror have been filtered through corruption and authoritarianism. And watching the 1982 film E.T., taught my young self about otherness, American surveillance state and government overreach (even though at that time, I was unable to fully conceptualise what I was watching).

And so it would seem that if I am serious about HER PERSONAL CURRICULUM - about designing my intellectual and emotional life with intention - my engagement with media cannot be accidental.

For years, my consumption was reactive. I watched trending films, absorbed entire seasons of shows without asking what they were feeding me, subjected my screen time to whatever clips were auto-played by the algorithms on social media platforms, and I am still shown these videos though to a lesser extent.

The Fire Horse, in the zodiac, is said to be intense, independent, unruly.

I do not know how much I believe in astrological determinism, but I understand symbolism. And this year, I wanted a symbol of refusal. Refusal to drift. Refusal to let the loudest story win.

So this time, I began with themes instead of titles.

I asked myself: who am I becoming, and what stories support that becoming?

Power and sovereignty. Feminist rage. Female anti-heroes. Political thrillers. African futurism. Community. Girlhood and memory.

Then I listed everything: upcoming releases, old films I had postponed, television shows I had “been meaning to watch”, announced projects that sparked something in me.

During this time (and in a familiar fashion to the framework of my multimedia feminist curriculum), I considered the possibility of accompanying media that would further contextualise my selection. After all, a similar approach was used to select accompanying resources in my multimedia feminist/womanist curriculum where books, films and research articles were selected not in isolation but in conversation with one another.

I began to wonder: what would it mean for my entertainment to also exist in conversation?

What would it mean for a political thriller to sit beside a long-form essay on state violence? For a film about motherhood to be accompanied by a memoir that sheds lights on reproductive labour? For a series about wealth and power to be watched alongside economic history or cultural critique?

So I aggregated. While aggregating titles, I also began to eliminate. I began to refine my selection through themes asking myself: “who am I becoming and what stories support that becoming?” What survived became structured in a Google Sheets document sorted by themes, film/series titles, recommended media pairing, film or book suggestions from HER PERSONAL CURRICULUM community members and a vote button (“Recommend 👍🏾”, “ehhh....depends 🤷🏾‍♀️”, “Nah 😒”).

That spreadsheet became “textual architecture” which I then translated into a visual guidebook on Canva. It showed me the atmosphere I was inviting into my year and that is what this is about.

The media we consume builds the emotional climate of our lives. If my media input is filled with anti-blackness, sexism, dysfunction, and spectacle — there is no surprise if that becomes the background frequency of my thinking.

But if I’m building a life rooted in feminist world-building, media literacy, creative sovereignty, and critical thinking….. then my inputs must reflect that.

In a few steps, I will show you how to curate your media inputs the same way you curate your ambitions, relationships and life.

Step 1: Start With Themes, Not Titles

Before listing any film or TV show, ask: What world am I building internally and externally? Who am I becoming this year?

For examples, your themes might look like:

• Girlhood & memory

• Political thrillers

• African futurism

• Female anti-heroes

• Feminist rage

• Cultural reclamation

• Sport

Themes first. Titles second. Themes prevent you from drifting. You can also later introduce new themes if certain commonalities appear here which have not been represented in the themes earlier stated.

Step 2: Brain Dump Everything

Now list:

• Upcoming 2026 releases

• Films you’ve postponed

• Shows you’ve “been meaning to watch”

• Announced projects that interest you

Step 3: Sort, Rank, Eliminate

This is where it becomes a curriculum. In my Media Board spreadsheet, I created columns for:

• Viewing Month

• Theme

• Title

• Format (Film / Series / Documentary)

• Post-viewing score

• Recommended/Similar/Alternative media

• Member Suggestions

Step 4: Make It Modular

A media board is not static. I add newly announced/released films that I was unaware of when I initially created the board. I also reserve the right to remove films or tv shows that I am no longer interested in viewing (from what I’ve heard about season 2, I think Hijack might be on the chopping block). When new films or shows are announced, I evaluate them against my themes.

If they fit? They’re added. If not? They’re admired from afar.

This keeps the board alive but not chaotic.

It’s also important to remember that this is a guide not set in stone, we all have busy lives with responsibilities and people calling for our attention. You do not have to watch every planned media but this board invites you to a more intentional engagement with your time and attention.

Step 5: Create a Visual Board (optional)

After finalising the spreadsheet, I created a visual board using Canva both for social sharing and to help my neurodiverse brain visual conceptualise the themes I was running with.

Seeing the covers together revealed tone, imbalance, repetition. It showed me the atmosphere I was inviting into my year. If this final aspect would be useful to you, feel free to implement; if not, the spreadsheet is completely fine.

Media Is a World-Building Tool, Build Yours

The stories we let into our days and evenings eventually settle into our interior life. They shape our metaphors, fears, ambitions and our sense of what is possible.

If HER PERSONAL CURRICULUM is about engaging with media and culture intellectually, emotionally and politically then media cannot be treated as filler between “real” pursuits.

Media has always been a teacher, and in 2026, I am choosing the syllabus.

Picture this: it’s a Sunday afternoon in Lagos and you’re driving across the bridge to Ikoyi for a gathering of “creative minds” - artists, designers, founders, lifestyle entrepreneurs. The ticket wasn’t cheap, but you told yourself it would be worth it. You arrive and it is exactly as advertised with minimalist furniture, thoughtful lighting and a curated playlist humming softly in the background. People are laughing, networking, exchanging Instagram handles. For a brief moment, it feels like you’ve stepped into a version of Lagos that mirrors your desires, a community that comes together with intentionality. And yet, beneath the aesthetic ease, you can’t help but wonder: in a country where community has historically been informal, improvised, and class-bound, what exactly are we building when we call these places “third spaces”?

But first, we must ask ourselves: what exactly is a “third space”? The term was coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg in his 1989 book The Great Good Place to describe social environments outside the home (the “first place”) and the workplace (the “second place”) that support psychological wellbeing and reduce isolation. These are spaces where conversation flows easily, hierarchy softens, and belonging is not something you earn but something you inhabit.

Examples of third spaces include cafés, bars, libraries, barber shops, community centres and, in many societies, religious institutions. By this definition, Lagos has always had spaces to commune. Churches and mosques anchor neighbourhood life. Buka joints and beer parlours spill into the streets. Weddings, naming ceremonies and funerals double as reunions. Community, in Nigeria, has rarely required a formal label.

And yet, these spaces do not exist without limitations. Religious spaces, while powerful, are often structured around shared belief systems and moral codes. Hospitality spaces may be vibrant but are not always designed for sustained, intentional dialogue across difference. Many informal gathering spots remain gendered, classed, or age-bound, making access requirements incompatible with the social needs or values of most Nigerian adults aged under 40.

What we are witnessing now feels distinct. The new crop of third spaces emerging in Lagos are often deliberately irreligious, aesthetically curated, and positioned as neutral ground for “creatives,” “founders,” and “community.” They promise inclusivity without doctrine or gendered hierarchies. They are consciously secular and often aspirational, making them spaces where diverse interests converge under the soft glow of intentional design.

But the question lingers: are these spaces truly neutral ground, or are they simply new forms of gatekeeping dressed in minimalist furniture and Instagrammable lighting? The answer to this question lies in both the changing tides and codified norms of the city itself - the migration patterns of its diaspora, the purchasing power of its middle class, the exhaustion of its young professionals, and the social hunger of its Gen-Z adults. We must look at the Island–Mainland divide. We must look at the aesthetics, the pricing, the programming, and the quiet rules of entry.

Only then can we ask the harder question: are Lagos’ emerging third spaces truly expanding access to community or are they refining it?

From defunct spaces like Stranger Lagos to newer entrants such as Gather House, The Joydragger’s House, 16by16, and Suudu Lagos, the city’s landscape of gathering has shifted in visible and subtle ways.

Each space tells a story of generational aspiration, class, sustainability, and the markers of belonging.

UPDATE:

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This is what came to mind before listening to both their interviews: first Jill’s interview with Angie Martinez on her IRL podcast, then Traciee’s interview on Emma Grede’s podcast (as written below).

These are my reflections.

Diana, the good steward

Something that strikes me immediately about Tracee Ellis Ross is how warmly and gracefully she receives compliments. There’s this sense of self-assurance radiating from her, this way of being that feels like she’s always been exactly who she is, no apologies, no performance. I have spoken on social media about how there are recurring themes in our lives that show up in the dreams and desires we have for our lives; watching this interview drove home this point. Of course, for some people this recurring theme of self-assurance was cultivated from childhood and for Tracee, she seems to agree.

“People say you grow up in your mom’s shadow, I feel that I grew up in her embrace.”Because yes, her mother is Diana Ross, legendary music icon and ultimate superstar it-girl. Safe to say, Tracee had an unconventional childhood compared to most people. To watch your mom break barriers and exercise agency while being celebrated for her glamorous beauty, to witness that kind of power up close, that’s a particular kind of inheritance. Not just access or privilege, but a lived example of what’s possible when a Black woman refuses to shrink.

Tracee talks about seeing strong and beautiful women in media growing up (she mentions Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, the Charlie’s Angels) and upon reflection as an adult, she realised that she became these women(also, doesn’t she look like she could absolutely be an ass-kicking spy with healthy, luscious hair?). The media we consume tells the stories of who we are, who we might become. It shapes the architecture of our dreams before we even know we’re dreaming them.

Know thyself

“When will you understand that anything you need in life, you must build for yourself?” - Eileen to Hedda, Hedda (2025)

To know others, you must know yourself and boy does Tracee know herself! In fact, this entire interview was a masterclass in self-knowledge, self-love, self-acceptance and how to translate this to a fulfilling career. She talks about the importance of building a life around being yourself and how that’s actually more beneficial than focusing solely on what you want. Because what you want can shift, can be influenced by outside noise. But who you are? That’s the compass.

A book that’s had a profound effect on Tracee’s journey is When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön, which taught her self-acceptance, mindfulness, and how the way through difficult situations can sometimes be presence and radical acceptance. This part of the interview brought to mind Jill Scott’s interview, where Jill mentions a similar insight through watching her grandmother’s grief journey. Both women arriving at the same wisdom: that feelings are meant to move through you, not calcify inside you.

For all the recent arguments against nepo babies within the arts - and listen, there are valid critiques considering both the devaluing of arts education in the United States and rising living costs - Tracee insists that her victories both emotional and material, did not always come easy and makes a compelling statement about her journey of self-acceptance: “It’s not because of the abundance that I come from that I’ve had the space to do that, I have carved it out. The visioning time, the dreaming time, meditation where I’m looking at things.”

She talks about the importance of not bypassing negative feelings instead working through them. She makes space for them and still sticks to the goals she’s planned out. Her inner strength seems to come from calling to her higher self, letting that part of herself show up on set as an actor and in public appearances as a celebrity.

Something really profound (which I was initially skeptical about but ended up completely fascinating me) was her saying that she uses “May I” instead of “I am” affirmations. It honours whatever state she’s currently in while also honouring where she wants to go. For instance: “May I lean into the part of me that is deeply grateful for this event that I’m going to, for this opportunity, for what it is celebrating, and may I let the soft parts of me stay as soft as they are, as I walk into this from a place of gratitude.”

It’s gentle. It’s not forcing herself into a performance of confidence she doesn’t feel. It’s inviting the version of herself she wants to embody, rather than demanding it show up.

The pattern of dreams (always refine, but never fold)

“Dream big - but know that you’re the one who’s going to do the work.”

One may be fooled into thinking that Tracee’s embodiment of mindfulness, reflection and affirmation combined with her star power must translate into a limitless reservoir of confidence when it comes to trying new things particularly with her now successful hair and beauty brand, PATTERN beauty, but she insists that she couldn’t predict how wildly successful the brand would turn out to be. However one can see how her knowledge of self, her specificity regarding her audience and refusing to internalise rejection (her first business plan was created eleven years before launch after countless “nos”) - all of which are traits she has honed in her personal life - weaved a thread that led her to entrepreneurial success.

She also reflected (there’s that word again) on her rejections, to determine whether it was a case of speaking to the wrong person, feedback that could be used to refine her messaging for the next person or improving the brand’s offerings. Her focus on clarity rather than trying to control the outcome were instrumental to her success.

And here’s the thing that keeps showing up in both Jill’s interview and Tracee’s: these are women who have built entire careers, entire lives, on refusing to fold. On refusing to make themselves smaller, quieter, more palatable. On insisting that their “centre”(that sense of self, that knowing) remains intact even when the world is trying to reshape them into something more digestible.

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On rising in love

Tracee’s singleness has been a subject of discussion in some interviews (who can forget that cringy moment with Kevin Hart) but while she doesn’t completely shy away from this line of questioning its quite clear that her personal growth journey has also included contentment and self-love outside of romantic partnership. She says that this inspired her to create and star in a solo travel show on streaming platform Roku. To not just imagine freedom, joy and self discovery as a woman but to embody it physically through travel.

Discernment through reflection(!) and self-knowledge seems to be a daily practice in Tracee’s life. In this interview, she calls women to apply this same rigour to dating by writing a “facts” and “fantasy” list on a sheet of paper: on one side, you write the observable facts about the person; on the other side, you write your ideal “fantasy” of a partner to give you clarity about the relationship. She also mentions the importance of observing your feelings after dates by asking yourself: “Do I feel safe? Do I feel seen? Do I feel sexy?”

As someone with a psychology degree and currently working on a journal that facilitates mindfulness for career alignment and life-change, I was thrilled to hear this because what she’s describing seems to be a brilliant use-case of the “WHAT” skill in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy; observing without judgment, describing the facts, participating fully in the present moment.

I deeply relate to Tracee’s frustrations with modern dating and find that so much of her advice would be perfect not just for women but for anyone of any gender or sexuality. Her perspective is refreshing and is one that calls us to take ownership of our lives to facilitate outcomes that are aligned to our authentic selves.

A happy conclusion

When asked by Emma what message she would like people to remember if her life was a movie, Tracee says: “May you be comfortable in your skin, find what makes your heart sing, discover your purpose and be of service.”

And I think that’s it, isn’t it? The through-line connecting both these conversations with Jill and Tracee. Both women navigating the world as successful, accomplished, Black women in industries that have historically punished people like them for taking up too much space. Both women who’ve been labeled, scrutinised, pathologised for not conforming to the script of what a woman’s life should look like by a certain age.

But they’re unpunishable. Not because they’re perfect or because they’ve transcended hurt or because they don’t still navigate systems designed to diminish them. But because they’ve done the work of knowing themselves so deeply that external validation or the lack of it, can’t destabilise them.

Tracee reminds us that the work is internal before it is external. That you have to vision, dream, meditate, reflect. That you have to carve out the space for becoming, even when the world isn’t naturally making room for you. That comfort in your own skin isn’t something that happens to you; it’s something you cultivate, fiercely and intentionally, every single day.

May we all be so unpunishable. May we all refuse to fold.

This is part of a two-part series on “unpunishable women”, i.e. women leading “agentic” (self-directed), empowered and resourced lives. It was inspired by interviews recently given by Jill Scott and Tracee Ellis Ross.

READ PART 1 HERE:

This is what came to mind before listening to both their interviews: first Jill’s interview with Angie Martinez on her IRL podcast (as written below), then Traciee’s interview on Emma Grede’s podcast.

These are my reflections.

Motherhood, Wisdom and the Architecture of Age

“You work hard in your 20s,

you work smart in your 30s,

you work how you want to in your 40s,

you work when you want to in your 50s,

you work if you want to in your 60s.”

This “work philosophy” from Jill Scott is something that’s been living rent-free in my head because at 53, she’s speaking from a place I haven’t reached yet, but desperately want to believe in: that there’s a trajectory beyond hustle, beyond proving, beyond the exhausting performance of always being “on.”

She talks about her mentor pouring into her life and how that now fuels her to pour into her mentees. And listen, as someone currently dipping my toes into mentorship with a recent appointment at an organisation for African women in AI, it was honestly refreshing to hear someone of her calibre navigate that space. Because mentorship isn’t always intuitive, and we don’t talk enough about what it means to hold space for another woman’s becoming while you’re still very much in the middle of your own.

This idea of stewarding wisdom - not just through words but through your actual lived actions - to pass on to the women and girls in your orbit, that’s the thing. She watched her grandmother grieve her grandfather and then release that grief to move on. That observation shaped her entire relationship with emotional pain. It taught her that feelings are meant to move through you, not cement themselves in your bones.

And when she speaks about appreciating her age, the wisdom that now gives her art depth, I feel something shift. Because we’re not really taught to want to be older as women, are we? We’re taught to cling, to preserve, to mourn each passing year. But Jill is offering a different perspective where age is accumulation and refinement, not erosion.

She also seems to have found the perfect balance between parenting and work as she speaks about her son with this particular kind of respect that catches you off guard. The kind of reverence that suggests she sees him as a full person, not an extension of herself or a prop in her narrative.

On the Creative Process: Befriending the Creator

“I have allowed myself to be friends with the creator.”

Angie Martinez is a seasoned music journalist, and she was able to pull Jill into conversations about her historic, iconic performances. Hearing Jill share the backstories of some of her pivotal on-stage moments did something to me.

Because as a Nigerian woman entering her mid 30s with such a long way to go, and yet a robust and diverse work history, I’m always looking at the next project, the next career move. I’m so focused on what’s ahead that I’m not nearly appreciative enough of how far I’ve already come.

When Jill says, “I have allowed myself to be friends with the creator,” the way I interpret it is that she’s talking about her relationship with the creative process itself. And the way she describes it (God-like in a metaphoric sense) it’s almost sensual. She’s charming and beautiful as she talks about her romantic desires, and then she segues seamlessly into her creative process, like they’re cousin experiences.

The same longing, the same surrender, the same aliveness required.

Romantic Partnerships and the Messy Territory of Desire

“We are not in tiny boxes, we are a whole spectrum of things.”

Jill describes herself as a “dominant submissive” and while that part of the interview has been clipped, shared online to a polarising response (understandably so considering the increased attacks on women’s rights all over the world particularly in the United States where she resides), I hold empathy and consideration for Jill while acknowledging that this perspective being shared may seem badly timed to female audiences online. Because I think what Jill is actually seeking (as an accomplished black woman who has had to make so many decisions, who has walked so many paths on her own) is some “soft landing” emotionally and perhaps financially. Not subjugation. Not the erasure of self.

I don’t think “submission” is quite the right descriptor for what she’s describing, but rather a mutually respectful relationship with a man who genuinely loves and considers her. When you actually listen to her full list of requirements for an ideal partner, they mirror the desires that so many cis-heterosexual women have: to be in relationships not poisoned by sexism and misogyny, to be seen fully, to be met with effort and intention.

She also talks, quite humorously, about her sexual desires, in particular, wanting to be with a man with some stamina(which, okay Ms Scott! LOL). She shares how she experienced a sexual awakening through watching Vanessa Del Rio, the 70s and 80s adult film star, and being struck by Vanessa’s complete confidence in the bedroom.

I find myself constantly reflecting on the importance of women having genuinely agentic lives, and such a massive part of that is owning your body and the experiences you have in the world with your own body, without compromise of safety or pleasure. Not performing sexuality for the male gaze. Not contorting yourself into what you think desire should look like. But actually knowing what you want and pursuing it with the full force of your personhood.

All Good Things…..

Angie: “What is one thing you’re no longer apologising for?“

Jill: “Myself.“

As a woman with not just wit, talent and intellect, but also curiosity, Jill also talks about the books that have shaped her view on women’s power and self-determination. She cites Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, pulling out symbols and mythology of feminine power and discussing how they’ve been systematically demonised or debased by patriarchy in our modern world.

She talks about ancestral wisdom that women hold, and how these oppressive systems work overtime to subjugate us from tapping into our ancestral wisdom and feminine intuition. Because a woman who knows herself, who trusts her inner knowing, who understands she comes from a long line of women who survived impossible things: that woman is frankly dangerous to systems built on our compliance.

And maybe that’s what we’re meant to take from the Jill Scott interview. Not a blueprint, but permission. Permission to be contradictory, to want softness and power simultaneously, to refuse the tiny boxes we’re supposed to neatly fold ourselves into. Permission to be 53 and still figuring it out, still desiring, still becoming.

I think Jill has gotten through her own spiritual evolution (a hero’s journey, her personal mythology perhaps……) that has not only led to a soulful life but made her an imperfect or “Wabi Sabi” feminine sage.

Confidence, compassion, pleasure, authenticity – these are the many facets of Jill Scott and I’m excited to see what’s next.

This is part of a two-part series on “unpunishable women”, that is women leading “agentic” (self-directed), empowered and resourced lives.

It was inspired by interviews recently given by Jill Scott and Tracee Ellis Ross.

READ PART 2 HERE:

I grew up watching Nigerian films the way many of us did: on scratched VCDs, satellite TV, and later streaming platforms. Nollywood was entertainment, but it was also instruction. It taught us what kind of women were acceptable, what ambition costs, and the price women pay for stepping outside prescribed roles.

Long before I had the language for patriarchy, I learned its rules through film. Whether it was power, money or independence, women who were depicted as “wanting too much” were rarely allowed peace. Their stories almost always ended in punishment, framed as consequence or “character development.”

Film is never neutral. Nollywood as a cultural force both in Nigeria and the African diaspora, wields soft power: it shapes values, polices behaviour, and quietly disciplines women through narrative repetition. While it often reflects social realities, it frequently stops short of interrogating the structures that produce women’s suffering. Instead, it reinforces them.

Across decades of storytelling, I have noticed two recurring tropes dominate the portrayal of career women: the “Margaret Thatcher” woman and the “Bad Wife.” Together, they form a narrative system that warns women against ambition and redirects them back toward domestication.

The “Margaret Thatcher” Woman

In Nigerian pop culture, calling a woman “Margaret Thatcher” is rarely neutral. The phrase is borrowed from the former British Prime Minister’s global reputation as the “Iron Lady,” but in Nigerian usage it has taken on a more gendered, dismissive meaning. It’s often used to describe women who are seen as too tough, too controlling, too ambitious: women who “fail” to perform softness alongside authority.

Nollywood has embraced this shorthand in its depiction of career women. In films and tv series, powerful women are introduced as emotionally distant, morally ambiguous, or socially deficient. Their authority is framed as excess.

They are successful, but never at ease. Respected, but never loved.

Traits praised in men (decisiveness, ambition, emotional restraint) are “pathologised” in these women. The narrative insists that something is missing.

By 2026, even films marketed as “modern” repeat this logic. In movies like A Sunday Affair (2023) and Love In Every Word (2025), professional women are framed as incomplete until romance enters the picture. Their emotional arc resolves not through self-actualisation or community, but through heterosexual coupling.

For instance, in the Netflix film “A Sunday Affair”, Uche and Toyin are two accomplished and mature women yet their friendship is tested when they both fall in love with and compete for the love of a married man. And while Love In Every Word (2025) was a viral hit last year, I couldn’t help but notice how Chioma (played by Nigerian actress BamBam) is “softened” and “humanised” only when she “submits” emotionally to Obiora.

The message is unmistakable: romance is the cure for female ambition.

Without male validation, they are portrayed as cold, bitter, or lonely. This trope does more than discourage women from leadership. It suggests that female authority itself is unnatural, something that must be neutralised or domesticated.

The “Bad Wife”

If the “Margaret Thatcher” woman is punished for ambition, the Bad Wife is punished for attempting balance.

This trope appears repeatedly in Nollywood domestic dramas. In films like Mr and Mrs (2012) and Trapped In Her World (2025), working wife and mothers are depicted as emotionally absent, distracted, or selfish. Their careers are framed as threats to family stability. For instance in the subplot of Mr and Mrs, Linda (played by Thelma Okoduwa-Ojiji) is a working wife whose high flying career provides for her household and her seemingly idyllic life comes to a halt when she finds out that her husband is having an affair with their domestic staff, Kate. The story frames Linda’s focus on her career as the cause of this infidelity.

When marriages collapse, blame is rarely shared. Husbands’ infidelity is often justified as a reaction to neglect. The woman’s work schedule becomes the silent villain.

What’s particularly insidious is how apology is demanded. These women are often forced to grovel - not for wrongdoing, but for having professional lives. Their redemption arc requires sacrifice: fewer hours at work, abandonment of ambition, or total recommitment to domestic labour.

And yet, the contradiction remains. Stay-at-home mothers are not left out of Nollywood’s narrative punishment as they are also frequently portrayed as lazy, dependent, or unfulfilled, ensuring women lose no matter what choice they make.

Career-focused men, by contrast, are praised as responsible providers. Their absence is noble. Women’s absence is neglect.

Even when working women are shown managing households through planning, delegating, organising, the films still label them negligent.

Domestic labour is invisible, while guilt and shame is constantly reinforced.

Domestication as Subjugation

These tropes are not accidental. They function as tools of social control.

By confining women to the home, Nollywood narratives limit freedom of movement, drain women’s time and energy, and discourage autonomy.

Even as Nollywood expands globally and improves technically, the gender politics remain stubbornly familiar. The aesthetics are modern; the ideology is not.

Women may work but never at the cost of male comfort.

Gendering Behaviour and creating a mental panopticon

Beyond the gendered depiction of roles, Nollywood polices behaviour.

Confidence, assertiveness, and directness are coded as masculine. Women in leadership are expected to be endlessly pleasant, emotionally available, and agreeable. Resistance is framed as disobedience. Assertiveness becomes arrogance.

Over time, these portrayals shape women’s self-perception. They encourage internalised oppression, learned helplessness, and self-policing. Women begin to shrink their desires before the world is able to.

Why This Matters

Nollywood doesn’t just tell stories, it shapes our world as Nigerians.

When films repeatedly punish women for ambition, they normalise female self-denial. They tell women to stay small, stay grateful, stay quiet.

But cinema can also be a site of resistance. To critique Nollywood is not to reject it: it is to demand better from a cultural force that shapes millions of lives.

This essay is part of my ongoing 8-week personal curriculum for Nigerian feminists and womanists, where I critically engage with books, films, research articles, and popular culture.

If you’d like access to the full curriculum spreadsheet, you can sign up via this link.

It’s a self-directed resource designed to be explored at your own pace.

Because our stories matter.

And so does how they’re told.