Radio silence as good therapy

The Value of Relationships

The past two years, with all their trials, have offered a profound lesson in the importance of relationships; those that endure and those that falter. Relationships exist along a spectrum, from those that nurture our innermost selves to those that deplete us.

Against this backdrop, I have begun to treasure those rare connections where vulnerability is met with empathy, and where the bond transcends circumstance or convenience.

At the other end of the spectrum are exploitative and self-serving relationships, built purely on transaction. They thrive when needs are met but diminish rapidly when expectations go unmet, leaving little room for understanding or compassion.

No showing they care

Sadly, I find few examples of truly healthy family relationships. Expressions of care are often superficial, their evidence weak or absent. That realisation has prompted a deliberate withdrawal, a choice to preserve space for safety, clarity, and renewal.

As September unfolded, following months of chaos and emotional upheaval, I decided to impose complete radio silence on all communication from Nigeria. Messages remained unread, calls unanswered, and I extricated myself from group chats.

While part of me was unsettled by the choice, another part found unexpected peace in it. After thirty-five years away, much of what happens there no longer requires my attention. Most interactions involve people I have never met and could hardly recognise in passing.

Distance became both shield and salve. It allowed me to detach from the drama, rumours, and constant reinterpretations of events that once held power over my emotions. Too often, such narratives are presented as truth yet serve only to unsettle, casting doubt on where fiction ends and reality begins.

Nurture the profitable

This uncertainty highlights the fragile nature of some relationships, as they exhibit little evidence of trust or goodwill, with corrosive elements overshadowing any kind of beneficial aspects.

By carrying this silence into October, I found calm. The reward was a steady quiet, being neither perturbed nor disturbed. It allowed me to engage, when necessary, on my own terms, or more often, to refrain from engaging altogether.

We should constantly review the quality and viability of our relationships, regardless of what has hitherto made them significant, for they might have fallen into disrepair and become unprofitable.

If I sustain this until year's end, keeping close those who truly matter whilst maintaining distance from those absent in my darker hours, I believe I will emerge stronger and healthier. That, at least, is my conviction.

Withstand the narrative

What They Are Saying

The immigration debate, if there ever was a decent one where polite conversation with a frank exchange of ideas was possible, is becoming so coarse that it is difficult to appreciate whether the utterances have been seriously thought through, or whether this is a race to the bottom in a quest to gain the populist crown.

One Tory MP deemed to be a future party leader suggested at the weekend that legally settled families be deported to make the UK "culturally coherent". Apparently, those with a legal right to stay in the UK might have their status revoked to force them to "go home". [The Guardian: Tory MP criticised after demanding legally settled families be deported]

I am neither shocked nor alarmed; we have heard many variations of the same theme going back to the time of Enoch Powell, whom my father withstood in a Wolverhampton pub soon after his "Rivers of Blood" speech. [Wikipedia: Rivers of Blood speech]

What is evident is that people with influence and a prospective handle on power are putting their thoughts into words, for the record, that we can now read, quote, and choose not to forget. I hope we do not just wring our hands in disgust but work against this narrative as a seed that could become the rallying cry of the unwittingly led to endorse odious views inimical to social cohesion and progress.

What We Must Withstand

The perilous trajectory of these words aims to undermine and erode the foundations of fairness, justice, human rights, and the rule of law in society and the community. We must hold firm to the spirit, the letter, and the defence of the quote often attributed to many great men of the past: "What is morally wrong can never be politically right."

Condemning the viewpoint should just be the beginning, even if the person apologises for their choice of words that convey intent rather than action. The impetus is on us to challenge these narratives with data, facts, the truth, and better-argued points that engage our better nature, rather than appealing to our basest instincts.

We all have the capacity for intelligent conversation; we should resist the inclination of the malevolent to drag it to the gutter of humanity.

Dreamscape: Truancy presages abject failure

Why I was a truant

It is becoming like a haunting of my dreams, for in times past, I played truant. My absence from class could never be properly understood. When one school report included the word "truant," my mother, a secondary school principal at the time, took such offence that I had to check if we were sharing the same meaning of the word.

In secondary school, my truancy was borne of boredom: boring teachers, even more boring subjects, and a total lack of engagement. In my English class, for instance, the whole activity was pedestrian. I was probably not helped by the fact that English is my mother tongue, as opposed to a second language, even though it was the official language of Nigeria.

Later in life, I came to understand that while I naturally understood the language, I did not understand the mechanics of it. I knew why a sentence had to be a certain way, but not how the elements of language were arranged to make it so. This became evident when a Dutch teacher of English used my intuition as a native speaker to review his notes. I found myself learning about the scaffolding that gives English its structure and grammar.

The unpleasantness of bad English

Elsewhere, my disinterest was compounded by distraction. In certain classes, I was so clueless about what was going on that I drew a total blank. It would have been so helpful to have had a student affairs department that addressed emotional, mental, and psychological health; I might have been saved a lot of misery.

The worst culprit, however, was a lecturer in electrical materials. His teaching style rankled to the point of irritation, and how he ever became a lecturer in a tertiary institution baffles me to this day. If he had used sign language, I might have been more engaged. Nearly every sentence of more than two words contained a malapropism or a grammatical flaw, and I felt such an urge to correct him that I could barely listen.

I remember in primary school, a new pupil came to our class and announced, "Teacher told me to come to class." We all laughed, as it sounded different, strange, and odd. He ended up in another class, but we soon became good family friends.

Always found wanting in Maths class

The haunting that has invaded my dreams for a long time now is finding myself in an advanced Mathematics class with no idea of what is going on. The lecturer walks in expecting the submission of some homework and then continues a topic I cannot seem to grasp, with the final examinations only a couple of weeks away. It is never a comfortable place to be; in that dreamy world, you are left wondering how to avert the looming prospect of failure.

I do, however, remember one final Mathematics examination. On the Friday before, I was not convinced I had the wherewithal to tackle the subject to the best of my ability. I found a primary school blackboard and worked through each of the topics to fix the gaps in my understanding. By Sunday evening, I was sharing better proofs of equations and theorems with others. I got an 'A' in that subject.

Between the dreamland that occupies the present and the reality of old, where I got it all together, I think of copying my friend's notes to pay off the knowledge deficit. Yet, a niggling thought suggests that I will not be able to pull it off.

The dream never goes beyond the lecture class, but the foreboding of failure lingers. What is it in my life that is showing up as a parable of omission and unpreparedness in my dreams? That is the mystery, something to pray for insight about.

Losing my religion in this reformation split

A Rift Turns into a Schism

On Thursday, the Global Fellowship of Confessing Anglicans (GAFCON) announced a plan to reform the Anglican Communion into the Global Anglican Communion. This development appeared to be intensified by the nomination of a woman for the role of the Archbishop of Canterbury. [GAFCON: Communique: The Future Has Arrived]

However, GAFCON's rejection of the Instruments of Communion; namely the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lambeth Conference, the Anglican Consultative Council (ACC), and the Primates Meeting, has led to a schism. Some deny that this split aims to reconstitute the Global Anglican Communion as a majority representation of about 75% of its previous reach. It is a major development when what is left in the Anglican Communion is a rump of the original whole.

The core issues that have brought matters to a head revolve mainly around sexuality, as some GAFCON provinces ordain women into the diaconate, priesthood, and bishopric. Yet, we must be careful not to assume that only ‘conservatives’ or those ‘stuck in patriarchy’ are concerned or impacted by the appointment of a female Archbishop of Canterbury.

Refocusing on the Word

As an Anglican communicant, I am encouraged by the warmth and humanity of the congregations I attend in Manchester and Cape Town. There are wider community issues that many grapple with; conservatives, progressives, and all believers alike earnestly contend for the faith once delivered unto the saints. [Bible Gateway: Jude 3 (KJV)]

The focus must remain on the resurrected Christ, the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and adherence to the inerrant Word of God. My beliefs are shaped by a Pentecostal inclination; I am equally comfortable anywhere God is glorified and the Word is preached with purpose, according to the level of revelation given to the preacher. My spirit and understanding allow me to agree, disagree, or seek further study after hearing.

While I am saddened by developments within the Anglican Communion, no one should be surprised that a new reformation is underway, as the Global South Fellowship of Anglican Churches (GSFA) and GAFCON affirm only one foundation of communion, namely, the Holy Bible, “translated, read, preached, taught and obeyed in its plain and canonical sense, respectful of the church’s historic and consensual reading.”

Breaking religion, affirming faith

In response, the letter from The Rt Reverend and Rt Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, the Archbishop of Canterbury designate, appears to be written from a position of weakness; the people she hopes to engage with are unlikely to attend the Anglican Consultative Council in Belfast next year. [Anglican Ink: Letter from Bishop Sarah Mullally on LLF, GAFCON and abuse]

This news coincides with King Charles III, the head of the Anglican Church, meeting with Pope Leo, marking the first occasion in about 500 years that a British monarch has prayed with the Pope. [BBC News: King to be first British monarch to pray with Pope in at least 500 years]

How this affects the King’s role in the Anglican Communion or the new Global Anglican Communion remains uncertain. Many moving parts are at play as we all try to understand the issues involved, some of which I have not directly addressed here. I find myself asking whether I am losing my religion, or if my religion is losing me?

My faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary. [Hymnal.net: My faith looks up to Thee]

Blog - England: We have a new Archbishop of Canterbury, she's a woman

GSFA Statement on the Appointment of the Rt Revd Dame Sarah Mullally, Bishop of London, as the Archbishop of Canterbury

GAFCON: Communique: Canterbury Appointment Abandons Anglicans

I’ll have that boy

No face in this race

From the moment I saw the byline in an email message, I had a feeling something was not quite right with the proposal. In fact, everything seemed wrong about it, but at the very least, I needed to humour them by sincerely reading the story before commenting.

The teen founder turning male fertility into a sport

The Hustle - Jay Fuchs

At the questionable border of sports entertainment and male fertility is Sperm Racing, a startup that recently closed a $10m seed round.

As the propinquity of perspicacity and perspective grants permission, the author of the piece in The Hustle, which is the sales blog of Hubspot, not to be confused with Hustler Magazine, could not have had a more unfortunate name, if pronounced in a certain way, in his role as the managing editor, Jay Fuchs.

Moving on, Eric Zhu is the 18-year-old entrepreneur and founder of Sperm Racing, an outfit set up to address the issue of seemingly declining male fertility in a rather novel way, while promoting a dialogue on the matter too, and everything you think it is, is probably all it is and more, from the name of the company.

The straight-faced debate

To determine the best swimmers on a microscopic racetrack with high-resolution cameras capturing the event, think of the desert camel races of the UAE with robot jockeys, but the sperm will run under their own steam.

Apparently, the viewership of these race events is in the high six-figure range, and the venture has closed a $10m seed round.

This almost Onanist leap from mobility to motility suggests many questions difficult to articulate, but I can see an end in sight, with a visit to a sperm bank or considering a competition between these depositories of human propagation for an open race to all comers.

Equipment set up for the race to save manhood and humanity, Guinness World Records adjudicators ensuring no underhand tactics, spectators jockeying for position, urging their colours forward, until one breasts the tape and she says, “I’ll have that boy.”

One artificial insemination later, if the winner has not been stripped of all dignity to learn of their secret of triumph, a stud farm, humans, horses, bulls, and chickens, and the business of reproduction becomes the survival of the fittest sperm, with happy endings following even more happy endings.

In the ideas market, let’s just agree, more is to come.

See Also

ABC 7 News: Bay Area student organises 1st-of-its-kind sperm race to raise men's health awareness

Desert Island Discs: Beyond losing everything

Beyond What You’ve Heard

My journey through the past episodes of Desert Island Discs on BBC Radio 4 continues, and I am just into December 2013. I once took notes on the music and choices made by people who have left footprints in the sands of time. Even some guests who appeared up to two decades ago are now centenarians; I guess I just keep looking up the people and their stories.

“Now whenever I finish something I take some photographs and say 'goodbye'. When you lose everything, you realise that the only thing you have is what's in your head.” Barbara Hulanicki

She is known for being the co-founder of the London fashion store Biba in the 1960s. A bit of trivia: Anna Wintour became an employee of Biba at the age of 15. However, the latter part of the quote resonated with me.

Amazing Spirit Power

When I lost everything, I had more than just what was in my head in terms of knowledge and experience; I had memories, but most of all, I had hope.

Hope, however, may not be sustainable when it is just in the head, a part of your mind and emotions. I believe, as a matter of faith, that I am sustained by my spirit, and that hope is enlivened by the spirit, giving life to the things you imagine.

The spirit of a man sustains him in sickness, but as for a broken spirit, who can bear it? [Bible Hub: Proverbs 18:14 (Amplified)]

I have encountered much adversity, illness, and misfortune that ordinarily I could never have endured, let alone survived. My spirit, however, like a dynamo, keeps going, giving strength to my soul and body.

That is the story I get to tell. Losing everything is not the end of living; rather, from the inner reaches of your spirit, you find the seeds of new growth: the hope and imagination that create the experience of a new life, purpose, and reasons to be thankful and full of gratitude for the gift of life and the people you get to share it with.

All that jazz around Cape Town

Reminiscing and Remembering

I returned from a short holiday in Cape Town just over five weeks ago, where Brian and I had a wonderful seaside apartment in Bloubergstrand with amazing views of Table Mountain and Robben Island.

The last time we were in this area was probably about six years ago, when we boarded a tour bus to visit wine estates in Paarl and Franschhoek. Bloubergstrand presents one of the best views of Table Mountain; you see the table as it is, which is why an area of Bloubergstrand is called Table View.

On one of the beautiful long walks on the beach, I did get sunburnt on my lips, the front edges of my hands on the side of my thumbs and forefingers, and the tips of my big toes. I could not believe that at barely 19° Celsius, as winter was coming to an end, I could be that susceptible, but there I was.

All That Jazz

Cape Town city centre is about 15 kilometres from Bloubergstrand. We could have ventured onto the MyCiTi buses but stuck with Uber rides. For church, we found a multicultural, international Pentecostal church that was both welcoming and exciting. The coffee makers exhibited skills on a par with, or even better than, Starbucks quality.

One of the many highlights of our time together was discovering that Chicago, the musical, was playing at ArtScape. We booked tickets and attended, where we were feted for our dressing and some patrons asked to take pictures either of us or with us.

During the performance, a gay couple behind us were the better part of a nuisance, singing along to the songs to the point of irritation. We did not complain, but at the end, they both came to say hello, apologised for being noisy, and then gave us their programmes on noticing we had not bought one. You never know what comes from keeping your cool.

Strange queues for stranger things

A Queue for Inquiry

Everywhere you go in Manchester, there are queues. I am often tempted to ask someone in one of them what they are waiting for.

When it is for entrance to clubs or entertainment venues, you do wonder what event has attracted such interest or who is playing at the venue, but my curiosity does not go as far as learning the truth.

However, the stranger queues are those for people wanting to access a restaurant, or for when a product is launched and people queue up overnight to be the first to get into the shop. One finds oneself sneering about the need for some people to have a bit more purpose, but then, maybe that constitutes purpose.

Food Queues Are Not It

One rather peculiar queue was for a doughnut shop in the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront mall in Cape Town, Krispy Kreme, I think it was called. We surmised, Brian and I, that there was something in the doughnuts that was attracting the patrons: an elixir, a drug, a potion that suggested virility, or something of the sort.

I have nothing but suspicion and paranoia about such arrangements. If food attracts people like flies to faeces, to the point that they need to join long queues instead of going elsewhere, can there really be so many people so led by their stomachs?

Having no answer to that question, and possibly no full insight into the motivations of such people, imagine my surprise when I stepped out of my apartment block and saw a queue across the road. It extended beyond the front of two apartment blocks, all for a Japanese fluffy pancake meal.

The restaurant in question has already gone through one name change, and its opening hours were changed the other day. How I notice these things, I cannot tell, but they are there to be observed. It is not that I have been tempted to venture in for anything; it exists literally beside another Japanese restaurant that I once visited over eight years ago, though they are divided by a street.

The Queue Is Inviolable

As an Englishman, I like the orderliness of queues and detest queue-jumpers to the point of withstanding them at the risk of harm to myself, as was once the case in a Dutch venue. The principle, however, cannot be violated: you take your turn on a first-come, first-served basis.

I will queue for the bus, to enter an entertainment venue, at the airport, or to pay at the till. For the other kinds of queues, however, I have neither the patience nor the time to waste being a poster boy for indolence. All right, let’s not castigate them. They have a purpose for being there; I just happen to have more purposeful things to do.

On parental interference and sundry matters - III

A Problem Child

I have a blessing; I still have my parents who are alive and well, but we have a situation where we are estranged. This estrangement is probably because they are embarrassed or ashamed of me, and that is something we all have to deal with in life when it comes to how we live and the choices we make.

In those circumstances, I have taken measures to manage their exposure to these things, sometimes by reducing or eliminating communication.

For those children who have made their parents proud without having to sacrifice anything of themselves, I guess you are doubly blessed. The stars were aligned, maybe angels were even singing to the shepherds in the fields, as wise men journeyed with presents of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the East to herald your birth. Oh, the prophets foretold it all.

I was not that child; I was different, difficult, and diffident. I was at one time smart and then considered stupid; for a while, trusted, and then not trusted. I was a handful to my parents, yet a product of the environment I was in.

We Were Not Friends

My African parents made many assumptions about what they thought I had learnt from examples that were not always obvious, for instance, the handling of money. Heck! My father is an accountant, but tell me, how do you pass down the genes? I guess only one of my siblings pursued a career with any semblance of that profession, so much for the power of example.

My parents are of the generation that maintained a certain status and stature, with a school principal for a mother, someone moulding impressionable young lives. The pressure to perform was even more stifling, the need to impress was necessary, and every failing was condemned with such excoriation it left an indelible mark.

Then I failed. I failed woefully, twice. I started courses at two polytechnics, both ending with the advice to withdraw. When I look back, I realise I was clinically depressed; my mother had Psalms and white-garment prophets on the rolodex of that time, and I found religion. I had finished secondary school at 15 and was starting all over again at 20.

A Different Parent

The difference this time was being under the guardianship of an uncle, my sadly departed Uncle Cash, a close relation who had experienced failures early in life but had become very successful in his chosen profession of insurance.

That relationship was different. It was not built on a yearning to show power by demanding and comparing, but on engagement and an appreciation that I was a person first, with my own beliefs and persuasions that could be accommodated within his mentorship and guidance. My parents backed off a bit, and I thrived.

The purpose I gained moved from setting goals to make others proud to achieving success for myself. I had the power to make my own decisions, based not on what others thought, but on what I thought was best for who I was, what I was doing, and what I aimed to achieve.

We Are Really Strangers

In their eyes, I could very well still be the child they once knew, because we grew so far apart from the day they sent me to secondary boarding school. They knew one child; I am a different man, and their child still.

In the same vein, my parents have changed from the people I once knew, even as some characteristics remain, and we have never really had the time to compare notes about who everyone turned out to be.

I have issues and misgivings, many of which I have written about in my blogs. I think I have had a reasonable relationship with my father and a rather volatile one with my mother. Even as I think of them and love them, there are elements of past resentment and abandonment that have taken hold as I review their parenting of me as an individual.

My parents, I can understand, have their concerns too: they have a firstborn son who is gay, has never married and will marry a man, has no offspring, and whom they have not seen in decades. And I am comfortable with all that, because it is my own life and not theirs.

Let's Do This Again

On my Facebook page, I have a friend request, the inspiration for this blog, because it is from my father, who I once blocked, then unblocked, but did not re-establish the friend relationship. After all, he conflated the situations of parent, participant, and policing.

Allowing him to participate in my social media activities meant that he began to police me, and then I got the message: “The earlier you make a good change in your lifestyle the better; it is not too late. All the best”. I was 53. I am going to be 60 in December.

You know what? I’ll accept that friend request.

Blog - This is my life, this is me

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters - II

An old blog hits 10 million page views

A blog adrift

When I reflect on this blog, it is maintained at my leisure, not to pursue any agenda or shift opinions. I work in the information technology industry, I am probably too old to be considered a geek, I could be curious, sometimes observant, and it is quite likely that I see things differently from others.

Many topics I write about are the concern of activists, yet I am not one. I like to see fairness, justice, communication, and understanding among people. I am not thoroughly lettered, but I have learnt through life the importance of being able to express oneself quite clearly in any language used, to avoid misunderstanding.

I have had no formal training in journalism or the creative arts; it has never been my intention to turn this into a professional pursuit, but almost 22 years of this blog is no mean feat. I do not criticise myself for not being as prolific as I would like to be, I write as I am inspired, urged, or persuaded.

A blog immigrant

I had been blogging for about 7 years when the local hosting service I used decided they were bored with it. I guess the trend was shifting from the written word to podcasting. I do not blame them, but I was left in a quandary, with the prospect of migrating about 1,500 blogs along with all the engagement elsewhere, without migration tools.

I lost the comments, interaction, many graphics, and links in the process, along with the statistics that exceeded 10,000,000 page views a month. By 2011, I was simultaneously publishing blogs at the now-defunct location of akin.blog-city.com and on Google Blogger with the domain name of akinblog.nl; that old hosting location closed on the 1st of January 2012. [WayBack Machine: Akin (Old blog)]

A blogger's thanks

Here, I have ploughed my furrow in near obscurity without seeking fame or creating any sensation for the purpose of popularity or going viral; all that does not really matter, but I am glad for the readership and engagement that have followed my blog since December 2003.

Early yesterday, my blog reached the milestone of 10 million page views since it moved to Google Blogger. Someone somewhere considers my viewpoints interesting, and that is quite gratifying. I do not take the following or readership lightly; it is your interest and engagement that made this happen. Thank you very much.

Photons on the Prostate - XX: A year post-radiotherapy treatment

No crowds on cancer’s road

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Each day is a blessed day of gratitude in the joy of living, and it was a year ago today that I rang the bell at the Christie Hospital, signalling the end of hypofractionated radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer. It was a journey with very few companions, a lover, a friend, a sister, a neighbour, a brother, a few colleagues at work and at church, on a road often travelled to a destination rarely known.

The weeks that followed radiotherapy brought fatigue, pain, and urges, but the reality that dawned on me was I needed to be taken care of as my strength waned even as my will and my spirit held on to the hope that there was a better story ahead of my circumstances.

I embarked on sick leave to recuperate, open-ended about my return from Cape Town and hoping to spend as much precious time with Brian who sometimes helplessly watched from afar how I tackled the diagnosis of prostate cancer and navigated the medical establishment and healthcare system to select what I believed would lead to the best medical outcomes.

My gratitude for care and support

In our daily conversations there was a bulwark of support, strength, and encouragement. Against the protestations of others, I boarded that flight, almost an invalid and with a voice that could barely be heard, knowing that Brian would take care of me.

The improvements in the past year have been quite encouraging, as it was last week that I learnt that my PSA test result had fallen to the lowest level since February 2024, after an uptick in March 2025 that left me wondering about how effective radiotherapy was.

While I do find myself having to wield my Just Can’t Wait card even as recently as three days ago, a lot more has settled down, as I manage from the occasional insomnia, the regular nocturia, and my voice slowly returning to normalcy, the opportunities to spend time with Brian have been a blessing.

I am thankful, grateful, happy, and blessed, each new day is full of grace and mercy. Yet we rise encouraging others to attend to their men’s things, notice the changes and have it all checked out. Catch it early, so you have options and the possibility of looking in the rearview mirror at that once threatening cancer that no longer has a hold on you.

Other related blogs

Blog - Men's things XXV: Prostate cancer under control

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Thought Picnic: When the truth you think it is, is not the truth at all

Dangerous Navel Gazing

We should be cautious of the sort of persecution complex that tends to give credibility solely to our own viewpoint and narrative about matters involving others.

I read a narrative at the start of the week that nearly made me snigger as I shook my head, because, although it was believed by the narrator, the truth was a considerable distance from where they were.

However, to resolve this issue, we need a proper sit-down to talk and an open mind to listen to what the other has to say, considering the facts, their perspective, and their experience.

Our prospective interlocutor lacks the emotional self-control needed for such a discussion. The level of self-absorbed self-indulgence makes that conversation almost impossible; those who have attempted it have been left utterly exasperated.

Breaking free and moving on

Amid a growing trail of unresolved conflicts, parental interference, and sibling rivalries, coupled with a tendency to seek refuge in victimhood without examining where one might have been at fault, it becomes a rather daunting task.

As it stands, everyone engages out of goodwill and good nature because that is the only fallback—apart from completely extricating oneself from the process—and that is what I resorted to, as the bond of trust had been utterly broken beyond repair.

Some might see this as making a mountain out of a molehill, and that’s fine with them, but if you lack the courage of your own convictions, then where does your conscience fit in, if you can be persuaded against your will to do things merely to satisfy others? As this line of thinking led to a conversation being aborted and not resumed, that inclination has not been compelling.

Your narrative is not the full story

To be accused of stabbing another in the back is to level a charge of treachery and betrayal, none of which was evident beyond egotistical entitlement conveyed with deft miscommunication bordering on disrespect.

The person claiming to be a victim was never genuinely one; yet, when allowed emotional blackmail, it was deployed, but I refused to be baited. The tendency for public lamentation with their version of the truth requires a wary reading.

We did not have another conversation afterwards. I gracefully excused myself to tend to my physical, emotional, and mental well-being. Other responsibilities faded into the background.

I am pleased that all proceedings went smoothly, based on the feedback I received without participating in any way. The knowledge that everyone will find their level and support, regardless of involvement, is also reassuring.

In conclusion, just because you possess a narrative does not mean you hold the full story, if viewed from all sides and exhausted through mutual discussions rooted in respect for one another. The truth is somewhere, but rarely in the loudest talker’s mouth.

England: We have a new Archbishop of Canterbury, she's a woman

The lots of conversion

When Archbishop Justin Welby, the 105th Archbishop of Canterbury resigned his archbishopric with an announcement late last year, I confided in my best friend about how I might not be ready for a female to succeed him, but I had a premonition that the direction of travel was towards something unprecedented.

The selection, election, and appointment of the Archbishop of Canterbury as the spiritual head of the Anglican Communion closely resembles the story in Acts of the Apostles, where the disciples cast lots for Apostle Matthias, about whom we hear little after that event. In contrast, Saul of Tarsus’s conversion on the road to Damascus, from Pharisee to Apostle Paul, who authored about half of the New Testament, is a remarkable transformation.

The politics of enthronement

This nomination is both an administrative process conducted by the Crown Nominations Commission and a political one, where the Prime Minister, who could easily be non-Christian, presents the nominated candidate to the monarch, the titular head of the Church of England, for approval.

The enthronement of the Archbishop of Canterbury follows a legal Confirmation of Election, after which the individual legally becomes the Archbishop, followed by the Installation service at Canterbury Cathedral, signalling the start of their tenure.

Yesterday, the Bishop of London, The Right Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, was appointed as the archbishop designate, to be installed as the 106th Archbishop of Canterbury in March 2026.

A precedent in perspective

It was not until 1994 that women were ordained to the priesthood within the Church of England; this progressive move had already begun in some other Anglican provinces globally.

The first female bishops in the Church of England were elected in 2014, and by early 2026, we will have the first female Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of All England and Metropolitan. [Wikipedia: List of female Anglican bishops]

I do not consider myself particularly conservative within the Anglican Communion. I am encouraged by the progress in ordaining women, improvements in safeguarding, and the church’s embrace of a broader understanding of spirituality across different sexual orientations, including even blessing same-sex relationships where churches are receptive.

Faith, however, is a journey with no final destination; only a continuous pursuit to understand more of God’s love and mercy, and how His Spirit leads and inspires the church to become more Christ-like.

The frayed bonds of unity

From a human perspective, I am uncertain whether, amidst ongoing disagreements about women’s ordination, even within my own diocese portends toward uniting the Anglican Communion.

Typically, two sets of ordinations occur: one for those who accept women bishops, and then a visiting bishop, representing those who do not, comes to ordain those of that persuasion. The debate over same-sex relationships keeps the church divided doctrinally and morally, yet this exists in a fragile détente.

Personally, I remain unsure whether the church has gained enough stature to fully weather these changes. It’s only been eleven years since the first female bishop was appointed. But this makes one reflect on the well-known African proverb: “If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go together.”

The journey of persuasion

The church has come quite far, whether it is now the time to go fast, leaves me in a quandary of my Anglican faith, something that might have to grow on me, because the hierarchy in this selection seems way ahead of my current conviction.

While I have fleeting thoughts about exploring Catholicism, I have yet to find a way or a path to reach the gates of the Vatican and kiss the fisherman’s ring of the Bishop of Rome.

Nevertheless, there is work to be done; much like with other Church of England initiatives, to pause on some of these advances and draw into full fellowship those left unpersuaded of these fast forms of modernisation and progressiveness that we might all travel far together for the amazing aims of the gospel.

Ultimately, we pray that the ministry of the new Archbishop of Canterbury be blessed with purpose, insight, and unity within the church. An essential truth about our humanity is that we all struggle and seek to be persuaded beyond our narrow perspectives.

The sketch from Yes, Prime Minister, offers an intriguing perspective on the Church of England.

Choosing a New Bishop | Yes, Prime Minister | BBC Comedy Greats [YouTube]

References

Wikipedia: Archbishop of Canterbury

Wikipedia: Ordination of women in the Anglican Communion

The Church of England: Appointing a new Archbishop of Canterbury

The Church of England: Members of the Canterbury Crown Nominations Commission

Thought Picnic: Escaping bubbles to create experiences

The beauty of having bubbles

I remember a conversation with a friend, a father of mixed-race children being raised in a progressive northern European country. He said he would bring them up in the bubble they have for as long as possible, so when they meet the world outside, they would do so with the assurance and confidence of knowing where they come from, without any fear of what they might face.

There is a rawness in humanity that growing up in a bubble shields us from. It provides protections that allow us to grow and develop the mental strength to handle both ourselves and situations, before we are exposed to what might shock, traumatise, disgust, or simply irritate us. This is a sometimes poorly understood aspect of a good upbringing.

I was raised in a bubble of sorts, in middle-class privilege with some trappings of wealth but never excess. Having what we needed, we exuded confidence without the need to keep up with the Joneses. Though my parents had risen from diminished circumstances and established their position in society through education and achievement, we were and are different from our parents.

A different kind of bubble

I was born in England, cocooned from the forms of racism and challenges faced by many foreigners in the 1960s, which greatly coloured their view of living in England. The primary schools I attended in Nigeria had most foreign pupils. It is amusing to think that most of our white schoolmates were Nigerian-born, with typical mixed Nigerian accents, while most of us black children were born abroad, speaking with foreign and usually English accents.

We lived in bubbles of privilege and access, but as we grew older, we were exposed to a different world, sometimes to the more privileged and sometimes to those less fortunate. Not to look down on others or feel superior, but to appreciate our good fortune along with respecting others, and where opportunity does allow, we lift them up.

Bubbles as anchors aweigh

For a bubble to exist, it needs an atmosphere. It moves within that atmosphere for a while, then bursts to merge with the surroundings. Yet every sight of a bubble in the air excites, especially children. There’s colour, there’s floating, and a longing for it to last before it bursts. Then, new bubbles are formed.

I recognise the bubble of society I come from; it has given me a sense of adventure and curiosity that has served me well in many places. I am comfortable in my own skin, speak and express myself with confidence, and I rarely feel out of place wherever I find myself. In terms of dress, I might not be as inconspicuous as I would like, but I have no issue with that.

My bubble to the world

How it has helped me navigate systems and structures is interesting. How to communicate and set the terms by which I expect to be treated with respect, courtesy, and dignity, without being aloof. I aim to be approachable, just as I am not wary of approach. I respect people without any sense of obsequiousness towards wealth or status; you need two heads to really scare me.

It’s those qualities my childhood bubble gave me: a combination of fieriness and finesse that taught me to seek rather than sequester, to experience rather than shield, to wonder and understand difference instead of settling into indolence and ignorance of others. I venture where others draw back; there is much to learn from escaping the bubble rather than seeking to be hermetically sealed in an echo chamber.

My fear is not of others, but of not being better. Life’s experiences leave me grateful and thankful for everything. There is much to do and many things to see beyond ourselves; only a few seize those opportunities for growth and renewal. You can have your bubble, but you must also exist in the world around it.

Nigeria, some hail thee

Nigeria, off my mind

On the first of October, Nigeria celebrated its 65th year of independence; however, in my mind, I let the day slip away with a sense of the uneventful.

As the thought crossed my mind, I realised that, despite the heritage, childhood experiences, memories, and influences, these are all vital parts of my being, though my affinity for Nigeria has diminished to the phrase, ‘my parents are Nigerian’.

Thirty-five years after I left Nigeria for the final time, I have no desire to visit or revisit any part of the seemingly privileged, idyllic childhood I once experienced there.

Even so, I am as estranged as anyone can be from any of the relations and relationships that once contributed to what might be called a sense of identity. It was a place; it was never home.

Relating to Nigeria

The independence days of yore, when Nigeria was still a young nation, were celebrated under a series of murderous military juntas, whose many names and roles I still recall. How we endured the sweltering heat on parade grounds, ready to march before military governors taking the salute on a dais.

One cannot forget how the Nigerian anthem of that era, written in 1959 but replaced by socialist-themed lyrics in 1978, remained etched in the mind as more representative of Nigeria’s story, until it was readopted in 2024. Although I have not personally sung it again, it felt like a Nigeria I could relate to.

Belonging elsewhere

My sense of belonging today is to the land of my birth and a land of my dreams, along with a land of desire from where I found a love beyond compare, England, South Africa, and Zimbabwe.

Nigeria is a place I view from 10,000 metres when travelling at a land speed of 960 kilometres per hour. The moving map on the aeroplane shows cities as we traverse from the middle of the north through to the southeast into Cameroon.

As I get less encumbered by detachment, I appreciate Nigeria’s contribution without acceding to any concept of being possessed by it. It was a place I was taken to, a place where I never truly belonged.