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Sometimes I sit back and wonder, what really is culture? Is it just a pattern we repeat because our ancestors once did? Or is it something deeper, something spiritual, something that pulses quietly beneath our skin?
As a woman born into a land of rhythm, colours and respect, I’ve come to see culture not just as tradition, but as breath. It's the silent language that lives in how we greet elders, kneeling, with grace. It’s in the softness of our voices when we speak to someone older, in the spices that dance inside our pots, and in the laughter that spills out during our village festivals. Culture, to me, is home, even when I’m far from it.
Where I’m from in Nigeria, a woman’s respect is her crown. The way we tie our wrappers, the way we carry a bowl on our head without dropping it, the way we greet with both knees to the ground, it’s not weakness, it’s strength in disguise. A kind of elegance the world rarely understands.
And oh, the food! Don’t even get me started. Pounded yam with efo riro, or rice wrapped in leaves. Food is more than survival here. It’s a language. A way we show love, even when the words don’t come out right.
But beyond my own culture, my spirit often wanders. There are worlds I haven’t touched, yet feel deeply drawn to. I imagine myself dressed in a hanbok in a quiet Korean courtyard, pouring tea with hands that have learned patience. I see myself dancing during Diwali, letting the lights guide me to new beginnings. Or maybe sitting in a Moroccan riad, eating from a single plate with women I just met, but somehow feel connected to.
Culture doesn’t always have to be yours by birth. Sometimes, it chooses you gently, whispering to your soul until you find your way into its arms.
Now let me speak about time, that quiet thief we often ignore.
For me, a waste of time isn’t just being idle. It’s pouring my energy into things that don’t water me back. I’ve spent hours scrolling through screens, watching people live loudly while I shrink silently. That, to me, is the real waste, time that leaves you emptier than it found you.
But I’ve also wasted time beautifully, lying under a tree with no thoughts, watching the sky shift colours, or just dancing alone in my room, pretending I’m on a faraway planet. Not every second has to be productive. Some are meant to heal you quietly.
So yes, culture is memory. Time is mystery. And I, a woman in between both, am just trying to live fully, collecting moments, embracing who I am, and dreaming of other lives I may never live, but still admire.
And maybe, that too, is a kind of culture.
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