I was born barefoot on a jagged rock in a black land with black men. I was born in Nigeria. That's my country. Like the production of a film, each scene is influenced by the actors and ah yes, setting as well. My movie is not any different, or unique in any way. Except that to see the face of each actor, you would have to go behind the scenes, where we were unfurled and free, basking in the consciousness of life and existence. I am no baby or child or boy or man. I'm just a little voice crying in the wilderness, telling of what we have seen, shouting our experience. I am only human. When I and the boys were born, mother bought us no diapers or wipes like the other kids from tomorrow. We were settled with loincloths that would be removed when soiled, to be washed and worn again. We never slept in the rocking cot or stood in the walking trainers. So we had to crawl on fours till our feet were strong enough to walk us. And yes we would fall. Big, heavy falls and yes we would stand up with tears, and we would walk again. When I and the boys were younger. We were bought no toys or action figures like the kids from yesterday. We had to settle for sticks and fingers and stones and rocks. Coming home each day with a bruise or two. Wailing out loud to mother who would bathe and clean our wounds and send us out to bring in some more again. We had no tasty food or snacks or sweets so we would go to Mr. Bello's store, and buy some with our snatch and speed. And his belt would smile at us. And the welts on our backs would tell us that we did the right thing. When the mobile phone came around, I mean within our reach. I and the boys would go to the home of the only boy who had one, and we would sit around him, our eyes fixated upon the wonder in his palm. He would press some buttons and we would see a little man in green fighting against another in blue. He would press some more buttons and we would witness the lady with the white skin take off her clothes, and walk around in her birthday suit and a man would come around, dressed in the same attire. And they would do things together that would spread warm smiles on our faces. When I and the boys were older, we loved em female girls. The ones who would let us take off their dresses, and do things when mother wasn't home. We each had a girl, special to each of us. And things were rough. Yesterday I cried over Maria, as she called at night and told me she was no longer my girl and how she let one of the other boys from tomorrow take off her dress. He gave her money she said. What have I ever given her? I bit on my lip as the tears flowed. Yes, I cried. And tomorrow, I will cry again over Marianne or Sophia. Yesterday, Maestro died. He was felled with bullets by some of the other boys from yesterday. The streets are not too safe, especially for me and the boys. His mother cried so much, deep tears of anguish and resentment. We didn't cry for Maestro, but we may cry for Aluta or Robin or me when we fall tomorrow. I and the boys met social media about a year ago. He introduced himself to us and he was all warm and smiling. But now he seems to bite us in the back with sharp teeth, the earlier friendliness seems all forgotten. He's very scheming. Knows how to cause much havoc, especially amongst me and the boys. I enjoy him sometimes. Most times I would say. He even killed a girl last summer, when he showed everyone her pictures of her hidden regions. I never saw her after that. We all never did. I and the boys take some drinks. It keeps us happy, makes us feel better, makes us forget, all the worries and pains. Fredrick would say with some smoke in his lungs "I like to get high, cos I love the view from up here." And we would all laugh and drink some more. Grades at school don't matter to me and the boys. But it matters much to our parents, so we try to get some good ones, or at least okay ones. Fashion matters a lot, the latest Sneakers, coolest jeans and shirts. The girls love the guys who look good. So we try to keep up with the trend. That's what happened in that scene of my movie and more which you would learn of from others like me. That's what happened when I had hopped aboard older ship. Do you like my movie yet? Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Just stick around and watch some more. Maybe you will see some Experience. When I and the boys are dead, we would pass just like the rest. We made no impact, struck no blow on this generation. That's what some time behind some bars taught me, that's what he told me through the silence and solitude. So now I change. The boys are gone now. It's just me. Now I teach, the little tots. Guide them right, lecture them of good. Let's see what their generation creates. Mine is already fading fast away, as dust in the wind.

Before the pandemic, I lived in New York City. On one of my mom's visits, we were sitting side by side on the subway heading downtown. I think we were talking about what to do about dinner that night. Suddenly she turns and asks me, “so, how many men have you slept with?” I'm used to questions like these coming out of the blue. Luckily, she says it in Greek. I began to argue with her, also in Greek, in a half-empty subway car, in the middle of the afternoon… about sex. Particularly how it wasn't really any of her business. “You came out of me,” which is her argument whenever I ask for privacy. Which I'm certain is a Greek thing. “Just tell me that there have been men!” She shouted. Was she asking if I was a lesbian, or if I was a virgin? “It's just sex, it's like a sausage going in and out, it's no big deal.” She was calling me a prude. “Okay, please stop talking, I have had sex,” I might have shouted in English, my mother then sighing in relief and going quiet. I would be remiss if I didn't say this is how most of our conversations go; me exasperated and mortified, she going silent or moving on to some sort of small talk. Our relationship has always been a tug and pull, mainly between my mother's traditional Greek ideas and values, and my yearning to be just like any other American Girl. My mother only come to the country in her early twenties, newly married, and not knowing one word of the language. Even so, she adapted to some American thinking and raised her three daughters with notions of getting an education, being independent, and never having to rely financially to anyone; especially a man. But some of the greek traditional ideas leaked through now and again. And then the entire world stopped. I was in New York when the pandemic came to the United States. We quickly became the epicenter of the crisis, sirens wailing at all hours, make-shift hospitals being pitched up in Central Park, and millions of people all around us completely devastated. It became too much for me. I started having panic attacks, not sleeping, and worrying about how I was going to survive. New York is expensive at the best of times, so I decided that it was best to move back home to save money. So I'm back in my childhood bedroom living with my mom and our cat Violet. I'm 30. I quickly had to set some ground rules. See, mom doesn't really know what a closed door means. She comes into my room without knocking. This would not work if I was in the office in the middle of a zoom meeting or filming a self-tape or writing. So I had to explain if the door is closed, you cannot come in. No, you cannot come pee while I'm showering. Have I mentioned my mom is bad with boundaries? She thinks I'm messy because I leave plates in the sink and she has accused me of loving Violet more than her. We've had a lot of difficult talks. Some even about sex. I told her about a guy I invited to stay over after we stayed out really late; how he offered to sleep on the floor and that nothing had to happen. “So he slept on the floor, did you give him enough blankets?' “No Mom, he slept in my bed because I wanted to have sex.” My mom shuttered. “I thought you wanted me to tell you about this stuff?” “Yes, but not all at once, Niki.” She's learned about online dating which she calls appointments for sex. Which I encourage because it's hysterical. On our family trip to Greece the summer I was 13, my aunt, my older cousin Eleni and I were sitting in a cafe. A really obnoxious sports car drove by, I think it was lime green, and my cousin said how much she liked it. Without a second thought, my aunt told my cousin, “if you marry a rich man maybe he'll have a car like that and you can ride in it.” I was shocked, so I asked my aunt, “why couldn't Eleni get a car like that for herself?” She looked at me with pity, “that's harder for girls to do.” My mother would never have said that to me. If I wanted a fancy lime green Ferrari she would say, “you'll have to work very hard.” I realized how different the two women were. My aunts do not know how to drive a car, they don't own their own property, do not have a bank account separate from their husbands, and don't work. Leaving in her early twenties made all the difference, not just in how she carried herself and lived her life, but how my mother raised her daughters. I'm brave because she was. I'm moving back to London in September and my mom is not very happy about it. She's just always going to worry about me when I'm somewhere alone with only me looking out for me. That's just the way it's always going to be, because I'm her kid. We keep having our hard talks, she keeps walking into my office without knocking. But we make sure we have an outing every Sunday, and she makes me laugh because she's the funniest person I know. And we talk. I haven't told her how many men I've slept with but I put the dishes in the dishwasher now. She's still learning about boundaries. And that's okay.

A Story of Greed Unfolding in Every Home.

Our generation is more connected than ever thanks to social media, and nowadays everybody can express their opinions. This is a very good thing, and a very frightening one at the same time. Indeed, it's very heartwarming to see that freedom of expression is alive and well, but it is also scary to think that with the modern tools available, anyone can be heard throughout the whole wide world. That means that anyone can create a movement or redirect the purpose of one, which can have good as well as bad consequences. The ease with which someone can be heard is great because it allows anyone to make injustices known and undone, or make heroes known and rewarded. For example, a few days ago, a video of a man named Mamoudou Gassama saving a child by scaling a building in Paris went viral to the point where the French president Emmanuel Macron rewarded him with a medal. This story was quite innocent and had a happy ending. However, the freedom of expression that made the hero known also ended up making him hated, because in this new world, everyone wants to be heard by everybody, and what better way to be heard than by using trends ? Thus, the Parisian hero, who happened to be originally from Africa, became the poster child for pro-migrants militants, who are hated by a lot of people. And that's how, in an instant, in this world of eyes and ears, we started shouting over each other and using a hero as a scapegoat, when the only point of the story was that a child had been saved by a good Samaritan with great climbing skills. We should have rejoiced around that story, but instead we started bickering at each other because everyone wants to have the last word, even when there is no word to be had in the first place. That is what frightens me. My generation is so focused on expressing itself that it sometimes gives too much meaning to trivial or simple things, making actual meaningful things trivial themselves. And if we lost the joy of knowing a life has been saved in a couple of hours, what else did we already lose without realizing it, and what else will we lose if we keep acting this way ?