Navigating the burdens of expectation as a married woman in Nigeria
Spending my childhood preparing for the Apocalypse exacted a price on my ability to trust, particularly in the concept of family.
“Dealing with someone else’s culture, someone else’s media, and trying to Americanize it is something I can’t understand.”
Wrestling never stops, so I couldn’t stop, and thus I am still here.
My relationship with food was a combination of deep love, reverence, and guilt—making it impossible for me to give it up.
A new period in my life started when Abu could no longer fast for Ramadan.
Well, what does it mean to be a boy or a girl? The answer so often is, simply: I don’t know. And I’m not sure that it actually matters, anyway.
As biracial people, my husband and I should know how to raise a mixed-race child. But I find myself wondering just how much I’ve figured out.
The secret of the beauty of our bodies is slowly starting to get out, becoming less and less niche each day. And I hope it moves faster.
Rozha fled an abusive marriage, and survived the death of her son. Now she claims what is hers.
It felt as though I had been evicted from my own body, and it had been trashed in my absence. My resentment was as precise as any recipe.
I want to believe that I inherited too ways of feeling joy, ways of finding pleasure, ways of being with other queers in raucous and wild ways.
“I found myself dwelling on these parts of Korean culture as a way to reconnect with my identity and also the memory of my mom.”
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.