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This week I joined a delegation of African Diaspora leaders on Capitol Hill for an AGOA-focused day of advocacy. The convening was organized by ONE Campaign and the African Diaspora Network, and over the course of the day, our group met with five offices: Senators Jim Risch, Raphael Warnock, Chris Coons, and Angela Alsobrooks, and Representative Terri Sewell directly. I came into the day with a clear angle. I wanted to speak from inside the agri-food systems I work across in

The excerpt you just listened to conveys my final words at the second edition of Graft Africa's Common Grounds Forum, where investors, researchers, agricultural and food systems practitioners, and institutional leaders in global development convened to discuss the urgent matter of unlocking diaspora-linked capital and non-financial capabilities to transform Africa's agricultural and food systems.

As my birthday, April 19, drew near, I knew for sure I wanted to gift myself a personal website. Over the last six months, amid a rollercoaster of accomplishments and adversity, the building of this space became a reckoning of sorts for me - a process that held a light to the work I've done in the last 12 years and the domains I'm now building into and creating from. My work has evolved. So has my creative practice, and while many core values have anchored the essence of who

I climbed onto the minibus that would take us from Accra to the Ashanti region and grabbed a window seat. The sun was out, and so was the excitement for the trip ahead. The team I was traveling with carried on boisterous conversations, and after quick introductions, I sat quietly, my nose pressed to the window, taking in the scenery. “Lush greens, palms, mountains covered in greenery, pawpaw and plantain farms” — I noted in my Notes app, after it occurred to me that this trip

By February 2024, I had started talking about a trip to Ghana. By then, I was completing my final course load for the Ph.D. program that I had begun in the Fall of 2022, and my research had undergone rigorous rounds of refinement. I was left with three themes that pointed to Ghana: Resilience, Climate, and Cocoa. 2024 was a tough year. The wins and great moments that laced the year felt more like silver linings in a mostly grey sky. I moved a lot and finally put my properties

Every night, the dark street snakes its way up a gentle slope onto a T-junction that serves as the closest landmark to my house. On the left, a number of houses line the bends and are frequently intercepted by closes, bushes, and a valley that accommodates what I believe is a large network of storm drains. Conversely, the right side of the street is lined throughout with identical detached houses, each flaunting trees rather than lawns. There are no street lights. At night, t

In the first 25 years of my life, I never had to check the weather. Growing up and living in Nigeria meant two major seasons – rainy and dry - and even the dry season would bring some rain in some regions of the country. I’m not sure I can explain how, but most of us would look at the clouds and make fairly accurate guesses about whether to take an umbrella. If the rain ever caught you without one, then that’s just what it is: to be waited out or to be run through. Regardless

Everybody Practically everyone loves great food. I’ve almost never heard a conversation among my friends about events at the Elliott School of International Affairs without someone asking, “Will there be free ?” If yes, the energy shifts with more enthusiastic affirmations of attendance. The only thing better than having great food is sharing great food with loved ones. It was a cold winter evening, and the rumbling in my tummy echoed my need to get to the food that would be

The scents of Yaba market fill my nostrils as I push through the throng of people in my way. Exhaust fumes from okada bikes shift in the air around me, triggering a few coughs. The sounds are a cacophony of car horns, afrobeat, store owners' calls, and conversations laced with Yoruba and broken English. Car bumpers nudge the crowd apart as tires slowly roll through the market onto Murtala Mohammed Way. The atmosphere is tense with desperation – vendors hustling to meet sales

I lay on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling as the ice-cold tiles sent jabs of pain through my body. It was the thick of winter, and my thermal regulator had gone bad. My space heater sat on the dresser in my room, adjacent to the bathroom where I lay, churning out hot air that I’d hoped would waft in through the open door. The thumping in my chest would not slow down, and my fingers trembled so much that I could have sworn they weren’t mine. The bright yellow lights han

The timepiece on my phone reads 3.07 pm, and I’m half-running down the street on a sweltering summer day. The Fairfax Connector that I commute on to the metro line that takes me to DC is scheduled to stop at the bus stop at 3.21 pm. It takes me an average of 20 minutes to walk to the bus stop, and I already know that my chances of catching the bus are drastically reducing by the second. I am walking as fast as I can, trying to ignore the throbbing in my back from hauling a ba

“Ma!” “Nima!” “Enma!” “Nama!” By the third day of my first week of #graduate school, I knew I had to whip up a way to teach people how to say my name. It was apparent to me that my full name – Nmasinachi – was about to go on a long break, but “Nma” would stay, and it would have to stay right. My name is the primary point of entry into my world of experiences – my heritage, my identity, and my aspirations. Amidst a throng of people from all over the world, with barely a Nigeri