Why I Document Culture

  I never set out to write about culture. Writing, at first, was nothing more than a side hustle - a way to make extra cash as a struggling student. But somewhere along the way, it became something else. Sometimes all it takes is a gentle nudge to bring a lingering thought to sharp focus. For me, that moment was when I started contending my identity.
  This is not a new question. Chinua Achebe also had to deal with it. In The Education of a British-Protected Child, Achebe describes the contradictions of colonial upbringing, being taught to question the value of indigenous knowledge. Achebe's candour about this struggle spoke to me. Beyond names and languages, what exactly did heritage imply?
  Demas Nwoko provides another answer. In the 1950s, when western art education left little room for African expression, he advocated for Natural Synthesis - the combination of African traditions and modern forms. His art emphasised functionality and community service. I see my writing in the same light: memory design rather than nostalgia.
  And then there is Fela Kuti. He shatters any illusion that art is neutral. Cultural expression, an instrument of truth-telling, is political. I recognise the significance of reflecting our society in his practice.
  This is the task for today's nonfiction. To write honestly about identity. To think functionally about the audience. To act with urgency. Because what we inherit is fragile. Oral traditions carried wisdom, but without a record, they are stripped of context, misinterpreted, or dismissed.
  I write, then, to hold open a space - a clearing in which memory can breathe. To remind myself and others that forgetting is not inevitable. Documentation means speaking with the past, present, and future generations. This is my modest attempt to ensure that what we have been and are becoming is not silenced.