A little big favour from YOU


So, I decided to take up one challenge this year and God pushed me to go for this gospel music competition holding in my school. By his GRACE I happened to get through the first stage and now I’m in the second stage. Please I need you reading this, to take just one minute of your time to visit this link, https://www.instagram.com/p/BSqLk6vhes1/  or go directly to  @ebiandgoodmusic and like the video of me singing… It’s never too late. Also, SHARE and TAG as many people as possible….my name is Nneoma, contestant 022,  the girl wearing the big loop earrings, a black top with grey lipstick.  @ralivenson is right on the video. 

Please do me this favour.  Happy Sunday to you

I know I can count on you. Thank you! 

Happy International Women’s Day; The Real Woman

​When I see ‘woman’, I think of strength, beauty, ambition, kindness, love, perfection. So why don’t you see yourself as that?  ‘They’ tell you the colour you should wear, the ‘virtues’ you should develop, the career you should pursue, the job you should get, how much you are allowed to earn, that you must get married to  complete yourself and even the age at which you must be married, that you should have moderate ambition, that you should ‘swallow’ the abuse for your children because you are a mother,that you should let the males take the lead while you follow. ‘They’ tell you many things. 

But really, who are they? Who tells us these things? Our mothers, our sisters, our aunties, our teachers. Do you really blame them? After all, they were taught the same thing. 

Society makes us think a certain way, telling us to be mediocre. But how long can we blame society when we are the ‘society’ that teach our daughters how to be ‘proper’ ladies’?

Well, as for me and my house, we refuse to be ‘proper’ girls, women, ladies, if being proper means  being  subordinate , mediocre or  weak. 

Let us come together, strong,regardless of our ethnicity, race, religion, beliefs and make a new society for our girls, one where they are taught to be as ambitious as they wish, be bosses of their worlds, earn big, have the right virtues, do what they want to, when they want to and because they want to. 

This is who a real woman is. 

Happy International Women’s Day.
Dedicated to my unborn daughters, Ivenna and Sonna. I know you will make a difference. 

Thank you Angelina Ogbonna for teaching me right. 
Nneoma Ogbonna©

The Eagle has landed… lol

Hello people!  It’s been ages since I posted anything and that’s because I’ve been jumping some hurdles lately but I’m back now and I’m good. We good? OK. So I’ll just leave this here. 

Coming home 🏡 to bad news📰 could be the worst thing ever. Coming home to find out a loved one has passed on is sure devastating.  We’ve all been hit by this feeling one way or another,  directly or indirectly,but we had to keep going, we HAVE to keep going. Everyone has a hierarchy of importance regarding persons in their lives and  when that one human at the very top leaves we seem hopeless, like we will never breathe again. But holding on to God🙏, He keeps us going🚶 , never letting us go.  At a moment we recover but later grief hits 🔨 us again, on that very spot where it hurts the most, making us  burst with anger 💢, tears😭, sorrow😔. Our hearts burn 🔥 with pain. We become vulnerable. We get so down. 

 It’s OK, it’s part of it, God’s got you, He’s got us . 

This goes to anyone who has been hit  by this feeling, maybe you lost someone a second ago, a few hours ago, today, yesterday, last month, last year,  two years ago, some ten twenty years ago, fifty or even a hundred years ago. It’s OK. It’s OK to grieve,  but let’s do that anchoring ⚓ onto the hope of a greater picture in the future, because God could have stopped it if He wanted to but  He let it happen. And for someone whose love is truer than the existence of Heaven and Hell, that sure sounds to me like He’s got some reason behind it. The reason that comes to mind is this; because all things work together, PERFECTLY, for the good of those who love Him. 

We pray hard for them to live, we give Him our lives, infact, our all, so He’ll make that one person STAY , but His will is greater than ours, His ways higher👆 than ours, therefore, He let’s the best for us happen. 

In all situations, all gains, all losses, all celebrations, all mournings, one thing is sure, He is God and He is Love! 

He’s got you, He’s got me, He’s got us all in His gigantic hands 👐 (lowkey🙊*this emoji’s too small to describe human hands talk less of His) and that’s something we can’t help but love about Him. 💯 

We can’t run away from this love, neither can we get enough of it. 😍 

 #SavedByGrace #ChildrenOfHope #StayStrong #ForeverGrateful #UmuChineke (pardon my Igbo, it runs too deep).


Dear ambassadors for change,

You who give nothing

And in return ask for the world. 

Our paths have crossed for a reason.
You who clothe yourselves  in ashes, 

Posing to wear yourselves out, 

Yet you indulge in guilty pleasures

Thinking you fool the rest of us.
You who are the toughest judges of all, 

Just because you feel ‘bester’ than others.

Let’s play a game called ‘Let the Skeletons Out’ 

And watch me kick your ass.
You who sell us with your sugar-tongue, 

While coating your lies in beauty, 

Take advantage of our hunger for difference, 

And in the end,  emerge victorious. 
You who boast of change

And really give it. 

Though negative, it still  is ‘change’.

It is not your fault for we never asked you the brand name.
You who know nothing about your ‘agenda’

I ask you now, ‘what does’ change’ mean to you’?


I hear your silence echo through this crowded room.
Well, let me school you.

Change is a process.

True change comes from within

And spreads through the circle.
Now our hope lie in the future.

The future is all those  potentials of ours, 

Awaiting excavation. 

After excavating , we shall attain heights we once only dreamt of.
Dear ambassadors for change

Your reign is over!

Completed on Thursday, May 19th, 2016
Ogbonna Nneoma 2016©


Three weeks gone in search,
All for an internship centre,

I finally got into the precious sanctuary

Trembling like a chick put in hot  water

I finally stepped in.
Italian brown wooden table,

Soft cushion chairs,

Cool air that made me tremble.

Bloke with flair,

With all his attention fixed to his system

I began to think I was invisible.

‘Good day Sir’, with my squeaky voice,

Unnoticed I felt again.
‘Serious mind’ I thought

Until I peeked at the screen

To my surprise he was simply looking at a blank screen.

How amusing! 

Out of the blues he put down his glasses and questioned,

‘Yes what does you want’?

I chuckled at his poor grammar,

Gave a lost look at his cool classic blazer

At was disappointed because I expected more from his speech,

But he was too blind to notice.
Like a wretched-being I said,

‘Sir, you asked me to come back today’,

Expecting a warm response which I got.

Alright go to the waiting room?

Hopefully things will get well I hoped
At the waiting room, I met a lad about my age,

Eighteen, nineteen or there about.

For the same reason we were there,

The difference between us was that

The lad was the nephew of the bloke.
After three hours of waiting alone without any meal

Unlike the lad served with nice delicacies,

The secretary said the ogawas calling us

Like I bird in just let loose, I flew to his office.

To my meek self I switched again,

‘Yes sir, you sent for me, us’

 I was basically speaking for the both of us

I did not even get affected 

When the nephew was offered a seat

And I, the wood, was left standing.
‘Ehmm, yes I did’, adjusting his glasses

‘Ok, ehmm, you will get a call from us when our oga comes back’

‘Really he is not even the main guy’, I wondered.

Thank you sir ‘, then I walked out with so much hope.

I slept like a baby that night.

I waited for the call for days but I did not come,

Days became weeks, it did not still come.
On the second day of the first week, I called the lad,

I tried to be nice before popping the big question

When I finally did, I asked ‘have those people called you’,

Hoping to hear ‘no’, I heard ‘yes, more than two weeks ago,

Besides, they only needed one person’.

My heart skipped two beats or maybe three, and then picked up.

Voice shaky, bones trembling, palms sweaty,

Still trying to be a man,I cut the call.

Thoughts filled my head. 

But why was I not chosen?

Why did he not call to inform me so I could search for an alternative?

Why did I place all eggs in one shallow basket?
Questions kept popping up.

The fact remains that I was not chosen because

 I’m not his cousin, nephew or brother’s son’s sister’s child,

Neither do I share any form of affiliation  with him.

I was not called because he saw me as irrelevant,

Or he thought that because I am Igbo,

I just wanted the money rather than the training. 

Wrong Judgment! Prejudice at its zenith!
Experience remains one of the best teachers of all time.

It taught me this;

Beyond those well-furnished , air conditioning ned offices,

Lies a skyscraper named,

‘NEPOTISM’: The conscience rapist…

©Nneoma Ogbonna 2015

My Perfect Gentleman 

My perfect gentleman with home of lice as hair,

Awesome fashionista observing him  ‘rag day’  

In something that was meant to look like a dinner attire;

Green blazer, red trousers, black shirt (sticking out from the back),

Pink lopsided bow tie, wooden shoes,

But did not due to some psychiatric issues, I suppose.
Still staring at him in amusement from the car, 

The sky became saturated and rain drops fell

 Poco a poco until it got so heavy,

Market women clearing their shades,

‘Mallams’doing same to their kiosks.

Obviously everywhere was rowdy like

 The round two of the Biafra war was about to commence.

Finally, I took notice of my perfect gentleman

Who like a fish at the first sight of water after forty days

In the wilderness, walked cheerfully under the rain

Keeping the face of ‘ah, where them dey run go? ’.

I summoned courage,parked y car and walked up to him and said,

‘Oga rain don start oo’ expecting him to run in foolishly or act dramatic,

He said in polished English, ‘Of course I’m aware of that’,

I even ended up being the one that felt foolish.

He grinned, displaying his conspicuous teeth with attractive colours,

Red, black and yellow polka-dots on the white-turned-cream background,

And his bleached tongue.

No one could help noticing these distinct features of his;

Even the blind man could sense its presence from its aroma

Bringing memories of Raid insecticide plus camphor plus ‘ogiri’.

What a combination!
Walking majestically like Mister Universe on the runway,

Displaying the big hole on his thigh,

He got into his ‘sanctuary of mess’, hailing his priests; rats and mice,

Picked up a shabby cushion, got out his Berlinski David’s A Tour of the Calculus,

A gigantic notebook, that looked twenty years old, and a pen.

Still wondering what was going on, 

He hummed Beethoven’s Fur Elise as he opened the book

In search of the topic for the day and taught his invisible students calculus.

He was so good a teacher; the best I had ever met. 
The way I studied him made me feel like Pavlov and he, the dog.

One thing shocked me about him,

With all the polished English, colourful teeth,

Gentleman-rainbow-attire and the disorder

He had nothing to worry about,

No shade to protect when the rain set out,

No reason to be angry.

He was always smiling,

Advertising his dirty teeth without even realizing

It discomforted the rest of us.
Of course I never want to be a madman,

Of course you do not ever want to be a madman either,

But he has something we unknowingly envy;

Self-esteem and confidence that we yearn for.

We get intimidated, whereas he does not.

We claim to be straight minded, completely sensed,

Yet lack what the lunatic possesses.

What then makes us any better than

My perfect gentleman with a lopsided brain?
©Nneoma Ogbonna 2016


by Ogbonna Nneoma

In the eyes of the African Man,

She is just property 

The more number, the more the acknowledgement 

So he acquires as many as possible,

Bringing them all into the ‘boat’.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a zombie

Awaiting ‘master’s’ every command.

She gives up her dreams

He then runs her life.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a pleasure satisfier;

Always at his beck and call

Where she objects, well she dares not,

He takes her by force for his use.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a piece of log

Possessing neither nerves nor emotions,

So he toils with her

Expecting she serves him forever.
In the eyes of the African Man,

Her life ends in the kitchen.

She never gets a chance,

Her intellect then goes to dust.

The poor world then suffers great loss.
In the eyes of the African Man,

She is a knife to be used to part the Red Sea,

Antibiotic in the midst of resistance,

Arrow aimed at the prey but shot at the opposite direction.

She is worth nothing.
But in the eyes of her children, her babies, her little ones,

To whom she is The Pride of Life,

The Beauty for all Ages,

The Oasis in the Sahara, interalia,

She is the Symbol of Strength, Survival and Hope.



©Nneoma Ogbonna 


 by Munachim  Amah

​It’s easy to not like Chimamanda. To disagree with her ideologies and perceptions of what it means to be human. To try to find faults in even the most passing of comments she makes.
It’s even easier to channel your frustrations and insecurities on one woman and say, “Oh, she went to America and they have Westernized her.” “Oh, that thing she is talking, that thing, it is very, very un-African.” “Oh, that daughter of that professor in Nsukka, she has lost her sense of origin. She has forgotten where she is coming from.” Some people even say, “I thought she said Chinua Achebe is her mentor.”
This is not only funny but disturbing in some ways. The view that all writing today should fall neatly behind Achebe – who was born in 1930, lived in an entirely different generation and saw splashes of colonialism and independence and so wrote about his space and time and reality – does not only come across as barbaric but unrealistically presumptuous and sanctimonious.
Many things are happening today. The world is changing in so many ways that marvel the mind. We cannot write about things that happen now but we can write about when the colonial masters first came to Onitsha or when people used to travel several kilometres to fetch water, abi? Do you see that you have refused to see that the current realities need to be written about too? After all, isn’t that what writers do? Piece the present together so that they illuminate understanding of the past in many years to come?
It is easy to not like Chimamanda and her views and her writing, but what is even easiest is to be endeared to her simplicity. To love her. To feel a strong sense of attraction to her humanity and her commitment to her truth. It is easiest to read this woman and be haunted by the characters she created for days. Easiest to watch her talk on Youtube and hold back tears. Easiest to spend 10 days in a safe space with her, and with other amazing people, and never remain the same.
Again, love and likeness and attraction are subjective notions. Beauty, they say, is in the eyes of the beholder.
Happy Birthday to this woman that means different things to different people.

(culled from his Facebook post of 16th September, 2016) 

©Munachim Amah