Life Isn't Perfect but It Can Be Beautiful

Author: Ogechi Onyenze

  • You Cannot Be Razz If Society Thinks You Are Pretty

    Circa ’13: He called me a dead babe

    Circa ’14: She told me I was downgrading myself by hanging out with my new friends

    The unspoken implication in both moments: You can come home when you are ready.

    —

    I have always taken offense to the word “razz.” Not because I’ve had to live under the weight of it – the opposite, actually. I resent it because of how selectively it’s applied. As if it weren’t harmful enough to reduce someone’s entire identity to a made-up construct, it somehow extends grace to only those deemed worthy, and it withholds it from everyone else.

    I have been called quirky, weird, awkward, whimsical…the list goes on. But never once have I feared being an outcast. I apparently can’t be. Nigerian society thinks I am “pretty” and that gives me license: to ascend the social ladder faster than any merit ever will and to “misbehave” without permanent consequence.

    I listened to a podcast recently. The guest, a beauty influencer, spoke about her dating experiences after becoming “famous.” She said it felt as though her dates arrived with a predetermined script for who she should be. And with every unscripted (potentially razz) deviation she made came confusion, and very notably – annoyance.

    I have faced similar annoyance. Often being chastised for behavior that seemed unbecoming of a lady of my alleged value. Because when you are “pretty” you cease to exist as an end in yourself. You become a means – an object with a very specific and unrazz purpose. One often not defined by you.

    But this is not about the woes of a propped-up societal object. It’s about the damage this structure causes for the “unconventional” onlookers who are not afforded the same forgiveness for very human actions. For people who have had to fight to be considered in a society that assigns value on the basis of very transient traits.

    The hypocrisy is almost comical –  people quick to condemn those who attempt to increase their social currency through cosmetic changes, while pretending that years of unequal treatment had nothing to do with the decision to try out for the “big leagues”. To qualify for a game that sniffs out imposters who do not naturally belong. Because the sad truth remains: razzness is not earned but designated.

    —

    To me, the solution is quite simple. Logic must be consistently applied for harmony to prevail in society. Inconsistent definitions are hard to digest.

    If razzness is to remain a permanent fixture in Nigerian society, then let it be applied honestly. Let a person be duly appointed razz if their actions align with the core tenets of razzness – regardless of appearance or inherited social class.

    That said – cut that razz shit out.

    Glossary:

    Razz: A socially constructed label used to mark someone as uncultured, low-status, or lacking refinement –  often applied selectively based on class, accent, background, or appearance rather than behavior alone.

  • When did you start (dis)trusting yourself?

    —

    My distrust always came in the most mundane of interactions. Sitting at the hair salon, not liking the reflection staring back at me – yet unable to say a word. Not because I was afraid to speak up, but because I couldn’t convince myself I knew best.  

    I always had a quiet preference, a nagging inkling that straight-back cornrows did not, in fact, flatter my larger-than-average forehead. But I held onto my silence, instead deferring to the professionals. Because they had to know better…right?

    Letting them decide felt easier. Safer. Because if something went wrong, I could tell myself it wasn’t really my fault. My silence gave me plausible deniability.

    It didn’t take long for me to realize that passive participation in my life’s trajectory was not an exercise in humility or politeness, but instead, a cowardly attempt to outsource my judgement to the whims of others.

    But the seed of doubt had already taken hold – quickly, aggressively – infiltrating my internal compass. And much like a lousy tenant, my agency was soon evicted.

    Just like that, I couldn’t trust myself.

    —

    So, when did I start trusting myself again?

    As the saying goes, once lost, trust is hard to earn. And boy, did it take me a while.

    I’m typically not a fan of decisive moments – I don’t believe they exist. And so, the shift arrived quietly, not with a distinct epiphany, but with a journey. One in which my zeal to ask (dumb) questions slowly declined. The spirit of doubt slowly crept in, and I began to shy away from displaying my ignorance in a fool’s setting – a classroom, built for not knowing. And the worst part is, I often knew more than I thought I did.

    I think it was then – when I realized my ability to learn might be at stake – that I finally admitted something had to change.

    —

    My trust in myself was re-built in the same mundane interactions. Revisiting the hair salon and doing a double take to make sure the vision was coming to life. Offering the occasional – what I believed was a stern – glance at the stylist that said, we’ll sit here until we get this right. Urging the speedy uber drivers to slow down, even with the awareness that I was at their mercy. And reminding myself that emotional distrust was not a unique feeling; extending grace to those who should know better, because perhaps, in those moments, they did not feel like they did.

    —

    So, tell me, when did you start (dis)trusting yourself?

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    Breaking the fourth wall here. I’d actually love to know – tell me in the comments.

  • How Very Odd

    I lied, saying, “I’m 16,” and tried to walk swiftly along the dim, uneven pavement, the streetlights illuminated just enough to cast a shadow without offering any real comfort from the beast behind me.

    The at-least-thirty-something man paused, feigning contemplation, then proceeded to insist that we could be friends – his voice calm, almost reasonable, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

    How very odd.

    —         

    It’s interesting – conceptually, I’ve always understood what makes some women “radical”. But it’s not until recently that I fully identified with the feeling.

    There is always the temptation to cower, to make yourself smaller under unwelcome scrutiny. But then a switch goes off. You put your foot down, silently resisting the object you’ve been reduced to – sometimes even giving in to the dance altogether, as a letter to yourself, a reminder that you are not to be subdued. Not without your permission, anyway.

    And so I did.

    When I decided to make a quick dash to the neighborhood convenience store, dressed in a yoga outfit, I could feel the eyes burning into my skin. Unashamed, lingering stares – very unlikely to belong to unmarried men. Necks craned out of car windows for a better look, aggressive whispers cloaked under the guise of compliments.

    At first, I was irritated – murderously so, if I’m being honest. Tempted to scurry back into the cage I had so obviously come from. But while the anger remained, it welcomed a quieter resistance. A desire, even, to strip down to my bare skin – not to give them a show, but to prove to myself that I had every right to exist in the world with unbridled ease, regardless of how I chose to present.

    —

    Disrespect for me, as a woman, has come in a multitude of ways. While not always intentional, it erupts casually from a scarcity mindset: the belief that two elements cannot occupy equal space, that one must rise above the other – man often coming up as reigning champion by societal design.

    I’ve been rendered invisible when I’ve entered an Uber with a male friend and been denied a personal greeting, as though he represented us both. I’ve been dismissed when I called to complain about poor customer service, only to be ridiculed and assumed not to not know “road” because of my high-pitched voice. I’ve been overruled when I fended off a man’s advances and lied I had a partner, only for him to turn to this alleged “partner” to verify the truth – because my own voice could not possibly suffice.

    I’ve been taken for a mug when I tried to intervene as a woman was being backed into a corner by an obviously belligerent man, and was told they were “just having fun” after seeking support from nearby (male) passersby. And I’ve been punished when friendly relationships have turned sour because an admirer could not accept that my feelings were not reciprocated.

    But the greatest disrespect of all comes when male counterparts insist these disparities do not exist, in a society that makes them so explicit, and instead reduce dissent against the actions of men to the simple caricature of a scorned woman.

    To be clear – I don’t hate men. I just think you all can do better.

  • Ambitious, Afraid or Lazy?

    The truth is, I have no clue what I want to do with my life. Well, maybe I do? But I find that these days, it’s hard to reconcile my dreams with reality.

    I recently graduated university and I’m about to start a full-time job. Naturally, a requirement of starting any new role is “proving” that you are a college graduate. Hence, I ordered my official transcript from my school (for a crazy $6) to present to the company as part of my background check. Full-disclosure, I graduated with a 4.0-perfect gpa (I definitely only say perfect here for those not familiar with my school’s grading system and also for the purpose of this story). As you’d expect, my transcript was littered with A’s on A’s on A’s…and while a part of me feels intrinsically content with achieving a goal I set out for myself, it still feels like I spent the past four, heck, all years of my life pandering to a goal that just wasn’t mine. Looking at my transcript, I couldn’t help but feel empty.  And after years of contemplating if this “traditional” path I chose is the one for me, I finally have the guts to admit that maybe it isn’t.

    So, then what?

    I hate to blame the trajectory of my life on my west-African upbringing, but as beautiful as culture and years of tradition can be, they often help build the bullets that bring you down if proper care is not taken. Like any other Nigerian kid, my aspirations were fixed on the “traditional” career paths. If I wasn’t going to be a doctor then I was going to be a lawyer, if not a lawyer, then an engineer. Heck, the fact that I opted for a more business-focused degree made me feel like a bit of a rebel (teehee) compared to my brothers who studied engineering. Furthering my entrapment was culture’s neighborhood frenemy – religion. As deep as culture goes, it’s often engrained deeper by her. Philippians 4:13 which reads, “I can do all this through Christ who strengthens me”, quickly became one of my favorite verses as a kid – it still is. Not just because it’s short and easy to remember (I mean, that would be ridiculous) but because similar to John 11:35, I realized that little words can hold so much meaning. To me, the Philippians passage was a beacon of hope, making me completely invincible to the weapons of the world. Interestingly, the one weapon I never anticipated being fashioned against me was my mind, but more on this later. The issue is, as much as the Philippians passage strengthened me, I think I let it strengthen me towards the wrong thing…

    In year 9 of secondary school, I fixated on my academics. To put it candidly, I was doing rubbish in years 7 and 8. Maybe not rubbish by all standards but rubbish all the same. As an African parent would say, I didn’t know why I was in school. But in year 9, I vividly remember sitting in the study room at my house and verbatim asking myself if the people who got straight A’s had “2 heads.” It’s always funny when I recall that memory – very interesting how we begin to manifest our parent’s words as we get older. Needless to say, I call this my vex moment. It was my vex moment because it was when I realized I had been wasting my time and I had the potential to do so much more. By the end of the year, I had jumped from God-knows what position to overall 8th best in my year. I fear it was so surprising that the principal felt the need to call it out on my school’s annual prize giving day. In year 10, I really unleashed the big-guns and bagged the overall best award for the year group, amongst other things (teehee). Year 11, the illustrious IGCSE year, wasn’t too shabby either – I still managed to be one of the top 5 graduates in my year group. The point is, I realized something extremely vital about myself, or honestly, human nature as a whole; when you set your sights on a goal, Philippians 4:13 really does hold true.

    I had started a path, and even though my parents were never truly as invested in me being a particularly “stellar” student, they now knew what I was capable of and quickly jumped aboard the train of my academic success. Naturally, the tenacious attitude continued into university. Freshman year was fun; I got to take liberal arts classes. I really enjoyed my global literature and business law courses. I felt like I was actually learning new things. Freshman year was probably the year I felt the most creative in college – like my brain felt ventilated. And then sophomore year came along, and I started taking more business-focused classes – finance, accounting, economics… things I had always excelled in. The difference was, this time it was no longer fun. I had passed the initial hump of trying to prove something to myself. And soon enough, every successive 4.0 semester soon felt like another check off the to-do-list of my life.   In my mind, Philippians 4:13 was now reinforcing my belief to achieve a goal I’m not so sure I cared about anymore. My major issue at this point was, my family had become very invested in my academic success and I too had become fixated on the idea of achieving perfection (I can’t say I’m apologetic for my tenacity, though). Somedays it felt like I was bound by invisible handcuffs; I knew I wasn’t passionate about the path I was taking, but I didn’t know how to get out of it without messing up my post-graduate plans. Add into the mix the fact that I am an international student in America (those who know know), and it was looking like a long prison sentence for me.

    But now I find myself writing this. Why? Well, remember the vex moment I mentioned earlier? I think I’m approaching one now. Social media can be a curse. But like most things in life, there are at least two sides to it. The same things that make people feel inadequate can also make them feel…liberated? I’ve been sifting through a lot of sites – Instagram, mainly –  and I don’t know if it’s seeing people unapologetically chasing their dreams, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m wasting my life.

    I don’t want to waste my life anymore.

    The issue now is, I find myself in a place where I know I’m not fulfilled, but I’m at a loss on how to take the first step towards achieving my dreams. Some days I think I’m lazy, other days I feel ambitious, and most days I just feel fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of stepping out into territory I have never chartered. I have ideas of dreams and hobbies I’d like to pursue, to at least live a fulfilled life.  But they seem so far away from what I’m used to and it’s honestly a very scary feeling. The thing is, I now realize that those who’ve unlocked the cheat code to life are those who’ve battled fear and replaced it with confidence. I’m trying to get there, and I think I am, slowly but surely. Step by step as my fave Whitney Houston would say.

    So in the interest of moving forward, here are a few things I know right now: I like to sing when I don’t feel like I’m being judged. I love music A LOT – I’m listening to it as I write this. I love asking thought-provoking questions that sometimes make people wonder if I’m mentally insane. I like to observe people, I believe behind every individual there is a unique story to tell; I might make a documentary someday. In fact, I know I will. I think I like writing, or maybe I just have a lot of thoughts that need to be let out; I find myself using my notes app to jot down the random thoughts that pop into my head every day. I LOVE impersonating people and characters – I think it’s absolutely hilarious. I still stand by my Rick Ross impression! I love seeing black joy. I can’t say I’m the best event planner, but something about working behind the scenes to create a space for people who look like me to feel comfortable does something for me. I think I’m going to learn how to play the piano this year, it’s something my dad always wanted and something I want too now that I think about it.  I know that these probably seem like normal interests that people have and actively pursue every day, but these are interests I have starved myself of fully enjoying for a while now. So, I’m excited to see where they take me.

    I can’t lie, sometimes I feel bad about potentially abandoning a “traditional” career path that’s often deemed necessary for society to work. Like I am not doing my part by sacrificing a little bit of my happiness to help the world. But after interacting with the 20+ finance-bros in my college investments class and meeting several young professionals that are so keen on changing the world one tech or consulting start-up at a time, I realize that those worlds will do just fine without me when/if the time comes for me to leave. Besides, who says I can’t change the world through whatever path I choose? Who also says I won’t formulate my own unique spin on these otherwise traditional paths someday; Life IS dynamic, after all. I am eternally grateful for the path I have taken thus far as I don’t believe education or work experience is or ever will be wasted. I have no doubt my business background will serve me well someday, somehow. But everyone has their own path, and maybe my now path won’t be my forever path. Or maybe it is, and I’m just deluding myself. But you know what?  I’m okay with that.

  • Home is___?

    “Not renewing my visa in Nigeria next time sha. Barbados way”, I seethed in our family WhatsApp group, to my dear mother’s dismay.

    “Is that how much you despise your homeland? NA WA OH. Five years of being away and you are in a hurry to leave and not return, ODIEGWU OH!!!”, she wailed, in our native tongue.

    Despite her dramatic lament, a gnawing pang settled in my chest – like I’d let myself down, too.

    —

    My given name is Ogechi Onyinyechi Onyenze – yes, my initials are OOO – and it beautifully translates from the Igbo language to “God’s Time,” “God’s Gift,” and “Upright Person.” Each name was chosen with deep intention. My parents were deliberate in their decision not to give any of us – my siblings and me – English names. This, even as our cousins carried middle names like Karen, William, and Noble, and despite generations of grandparents bearing names like Jeremiah, Anthony, and Helen. At the tender age of five, I pled with my mom to grant me an English name. To her credit, she humored me and suggested “Mildred” – but in that moment, I knew it simply wasn’t meant to be.

    That early desire for something different – something easier – was the first clue that identity, for me, would never be simple.

    As I reflect on what it’s meant to craft my identity as an African child with a heavy western influence, I often find myself at a crossroads between the parts of me I know to be true, and the parts I’ve learned to mold. It’s not lost on me that I am a Nigerian – the green booklet that restricts more than it grants access, is a sweet reminder of that fact. But exposure often feels like stepping into a wide-open sky, promising to soothe wounds you’ve kept hidden for so long. Except, I’m not so sure which wounds still need healing – or which ones I even should heal.

    It’s a strange tension, trying to love a place that’s taught you how to bend before you learned to stand.

    The experience of being born into a developing nation – especially one that has regressed more than it’s progressed in recent years – is hard to quantify. Love and frustration sit at a stalemate in my heart as I wrestle with my feelings toward where I come from. How do I explain that I adore the “craze” that so often defines my countrymen, while also despising the systems that created that very chaos? My stat class taught me two things can be true at once – but in Nigeria, there’s a multitude of “two things” that are true, and eventually, the logic collapses under its own weight. Someone once said that if the Nigerian experience is explained to you and you understand it, then it wasn’t explained well. My first visit home after moving away for college made that make perfect sense.

    By the time I booked my flight home, these contradictions were no longer abstract – they were personal.

    After five years away, the 10-hour flight home felt like a trek toward my own demise. Dramatic, I know. But I meant it when I prayed – earnestly – for the good Lord to turn the plane around two hours in. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was not having the original copy of my H1B approval notice for my visa interview. Maybe it was Trump’s looming first 100 days in office. Maybe it was the knowledge that I was returning at some point for a year-long company rotation program. Or maybe it was just plain old “pre-Naij” jitters – or all of it combined. Either way, a quiet dissonance settled in: I was going back to a place I had, essentially, run from. Dramatic again, I know – I can’t help it. I suppose it’s yet another symptom of my nationality.  

    Just one visit to the doctor’s office – where nurses launched into praise and worship to the dismay of waiting patients – was enough to confirm that my dramatics were, in fact, warranted.

    When I arrived, everything felt…the same – only a bit more worn down around the edges. Bus drivers still hurled profanities as they defended their God-given right to a one-way route. Police officers still manned checkpoints across the city, slowing cars with the familiar pretense of traffic violations, the infamous “anything for the boys” lingering just behind their throats. The hair salon I frequented as a kid still held many of the same faces – even those that started working there so early into their youth. And the worst part? It smelled awful. Like the city had been holding its breath for five years and finally exhaled the second I landed. To add insult to my already fragile sense of national pride, my visa interview turned into a pissing contest with the Nigerians working at the consulate. I was transported back to a time when I couldn’t raise my voice against injustice – forced once again to rely on superfluous “Mas,” “Sirs,” and pleading “pleases” just to inch forward. I wanted so badly to go back home. Except – I was already there.

    That tension lingered throughout my visit, shaping how I received even the smallest moments.

    So, while my mom’s reprimand stung, I can’t deny what that visit stirred in me. I’ll admit – it didn’t take long to fall back into the rhythm I’d known for 18 years. But even that familiarity unsettled me. My heart resisting the quiet acceptance of the damaging markers that have long defined Nigerian society.

    And yet, despite everything – despite knowing better – I’m back for a little while and I’m… interested to see what comes of it.

    Maybe I’m a little crazy too.

    Glossary:

    Odiegwu – An Igbo expression of disbelief or exasperation; roughly translates to “Can you imagine?” or “Unbelievable!”

    Na wa – A common Nigerian exclamation (from Pidgin English) used to express disbelief, frustration, or exasperation. Think: “Wow,” “Seriously?” or “What is this nonsense?”

    Oh – A common expression in Nigerian speech, used to add emphasis, emotion, or urgency to a statement (e.g., “It’s hot oh!”)

    Sha – A casual Nigerian-English filler that softens a statement or adds finality; similar to “anyway” or “that’s just how it is.”

    H1B Visa – A U.S. visa that lets foreign professionals work in specialized fields—assuming, of course, you survive the lottery, fear of policy shifts, and mild existential dread (teehee)

    H1B approval notice – An official U.S. government document (Form I-797) that proves your H1B visa has been approved