The air was thick and humid like a hot kitchen and the streets were lined with lopsided hut markets, whose ochre-colored hay walls contrasted the bright-colored plantains and kola nut. People were shouting over each other and speeding through the market haphazardly on bright yellow “Keke Napeps.” Women held large baskets over their heads and babies strapped on their backs with patterned “wrappas.” Initially, during my first few days living in Nigeria, I was appalled by the way people weren’t fazed by the profuse amount of bugs that swarmed every corner of the country or the way no one grew furious at NEPA’s inefficiency, cutting the electricity off at odd hours of the night. My native uncle noticed my demeanor and spoke to me softly, “Na Nigeria, anyi neme ihe di niche, mana anyi bu ezigbo mmadu. Gbalịa ịghọta” “In Nigeria, things are not perfect, but we are good people. Try to understand.” After my Uncle’s words, I felt ashamed and decided to redirect my efforts into fully absorbing and understanding Nigerian people and culture. My Americanized conception of the world, human connection, and the “rules” of society were challenged and transformed. By removing my American lens and donning an open mind, I saw beauty in the earthiness of the edifices, the powerful, resounding night sermons you could hear from inside your bedroom. I recognized the way no matter the expression, each person’s face seemed to hold a thousand stories, stories of struggle, perseverance, and hope. My parents immigrated from Nigeria to the States in the 60's, fleeing Orsu Village to pursue higher-level academics in America. Since I was a child, and still to this day, my parents have always been superheroes to me. I’ve watched them transform people's lives through the superpower that is modern medicine. After my stay in Nigeria, through this epiphany, I found myself spun into the interconnected web of the Afro-diasporic experience that I initially felt detached from. A fire was ignited within me, one that burns with the drive to help others recognize and respect the humanity of Africans across the diaspora. Unlike my previously limited scope of wanting to perform neonatal care in the US, I now want to broaden the reach of my talents by servicing Black people all around the globe. My experience living in Nigeria, my childhood spent admiring my parents, and my last two years at Harvard University have empowered me with a strong pre-health foundation and transformative opportunities that have solidified my purpose and deep care for transforming the scope of neonatal care in Nigeria, home to Ezigbo Mmadu: "Good People."

The air was thick and humid like a hot kitchen and the streets were lined with lopsided hut markets, whose ochre-colored hay walls contrasted the bright-colored plantains and kola nut. People were shouting over each other and speeding through the market haphazardly on bright yellow “Keke Napeps.” Women held large baskets over their heads and babies strapped on their backs with patterned “wrappas.” Initially, during my first days in Nigeria, I was appalled by the way people weren’t fazed by the profuse amount of bugs that swarmed every corner of the country or the way no one grew furious at NEPA’s inefficiency, cutting the electricity off at odd hours of the night. My native uncle noticed my demeanor and spoke to me softly, “Na Nigeria, anyi neme ihe di niche, mana anyi bu ezigbo mmadu. Gbalịa ịghọta” “In Nigeria, things are not perfect, but we are good people. Try to understand.” After my Uncle’s words, I felt ashamed and decided to redirect my efforts into fully absorbing and understanding Nigerian people and culture. My Americanized conception of the world, human connection, and the “rules” of society were challenged and transformed. By removing my American lens and donning an open mind, I saw beauty in the earthiness of the edifices, the powerful, resounding night sermons you could hear from inside your bedroom. I recognized the way no matter the expression, each person’s face seemed to hold a thousand stories, stories of struggle, perseverance, and hope. My parents immigrated from Nigeria to the States in the 60's, fleeing Orsu Village to pursue higher-level academics in America. Since I was a child, and still to this day, my parents have always been superheroes to me. I’ve watched them transform people's lives through the superpower that is modern medicine. After my stay in Nigeria, through this epiphany, I found myself spun into the interconnected web of the Afro-diasporic experience that I initially felt detached from. A fire was ignited within me, one that burns with the drive to help others recognize and respect the humanity of Africans across the diaspora. Unlike my previously limited scope of wanting to perform neonatal care in the US, I now want to broaden the reach of my talents by servicing Black people all around the globe. My experience living in Nigeria, my childhood spent admiring my parents, and my last two years at Harvard University have empowered me with a strong pre-health foundation and transformative opportunities that have solidified my purpose and deep care for transforming the scope of neonatal care in Nigeria.

The air was thick and humid like a hot kitchen and the streets were lined with lopsided hut markets, whose ochre-colored hay walls contrasted the bright-colored plantains and kola nut. People were shouting over each other and speeding through the market haphazardly on bright yellow “Keke Napeps.” Women held large baskets over their heads and babies strapped on their backs with patterned “wrappas.” Initially, during my first days in Nigeria, I was appalled by the way people weren’t fazed by the profuse amount of bugs that swarmed every corner of the country or the way no one grew furious at NEPA’s inefficiency, cutting the electricity off at odd hours of the night. My native uncle noticed my demeanor and spoke to me softly, “Na Nigeria, anyi neme ihe di niche, mana anyi bu ezigbo mmadu. Gbalịa ịghọta” “In Nigeria, things are not perfect, but we are good people. Try to understand.” After my Uncle’s words, I felt ashamed and decided to redirect my efforts into fully absorbing and understanding Nigerian people and culture. My Americanized conception of the world, human connection, and the “rules” of society were challenged and transformed. By removing my American lens and donning an open mind, I saw beauty in the earthiness of the edifices, the powerful, resounding night sermons you could hear from inside your bedroom. I recognized the way no matter the expression, each person’s face seemed to hold a thousand stories, stories of struggle, perseverance, and hope. My parents immigrated from Nigeria to the States in the 60's, fleeing Orsu Village to pursue higher-level academics in America. Since I was a child, and still to this day, my parents have always been superheroes to me. I’ve watched them transform people's lives through the superpower that is modern medicine. After my stay in Nigeria, through this epiphany, I found myself spun into the interconnected web of the Afro-diasporic experience that I initially felt detached from. A fire was ignited within me, one that burns with the drive to help others recognize and respect the humanity of Africans across the diaspora. Unlike my previously limited scope of wanting to perform neonatal care in the US, I now want to broaden the reach of my talents by servicing Black people all around the globe. My experience living in Nigeria, my childhood spent admiring my parents, and my last two years at Harvard University have empowered me with a strong pre-health foundation and transformative opportunities that have solidified my purpose and deep care for transforming the scope of neonatal care in Nigeria.

“Life is your birthright, they hid that in the fine print.” “Take the pen and rewrite it.” The first time I listened to Beyoncé’s Black is King album, I cried incessantly. It was magical and cathartic and otherworldly. I remember lying in bed, plugging my headphones in and just listening. Feeling. Okay, I have to confess, I am a Beyhive member. But never has a song truly taken me to a different realm, a different consciousness of my existence. July 2019, the summer before my Junior year. While I’ve always appreciated the long break before school, break means free time. Free time means time to myself. Time to myself means thinking, a lot of thinking. Thinking can be painful. Sometimes when I think, I think about being a Black girl. I think about how much I love dancing to Megan Thee Stallion and going to beauty supply stores with my sister. But I also think about being doubted or my intelligence and always being the odd one, the alien to the planet of white classrooms. I think about being the voice, the megaphone for all black people in my AP English Huckleberry Finn Socratic seminar. And I think about Sandra Bland, Aiyana Stanley-Jones, and the many Black women/girls who don’t get to think anymore. I think and think and think myself sick until I force myself to not think anymore. When Black is King dropped, I thought it would be a good escape from my thoughts. Just me and music. "Bigger" was the first song. “If you feel insignificant, you better think again.” “You’re part of something way bigger.” I swear Beyoncé has got to be omniscient. It’s as if she’d been watching me spiral into deep pits of depression, feeling minute yet somehow responsible for the paralyzing current world injustices. Her words caressed my anxious soul, and for once, I finally felt at peace. I think about my identity a lot. How I often let my skin color define myself, my future, my hopes, dreams, passions. "Bigger than the picture they framed us to be” When your body becomes a sensationalized commodity for political talking points, you start to wonder if you actually mean anything. If you mean anything outside of a percent in a demographic or a picture on a school website. You wonder if fighting against social issues is your purpose because “the ones before you were brave enough to.” But I think I don’t want to be brave. I want to explore my essence, and ground myself in rich soil, where I can grow and grow and flower into a version of myself that is audaciously authentic. “I pour into you and you pour into me There ain't no drought here Bloom into our actual powers.” I want to bloom amidst a garden, a diverse garden full of flowers that are different in essence, different colors, patterns, but collectively extraordinary. I think that this garden is my something way bigger. I just have to find it.