I never imagined that a move to Cairo, a scam over flour, and a blocked friendship would lead me into my true calling as an artisan baker. From struggling to find rye flour to selling my first loaf, and finally standing in a German baking academy learning that sourdough itself began in Egypt, it was a full circle moment I’ll never forget. This is the story of how bread found me
Lying has always made me physically sick. From a traumatic early lie at age five to the complicated expectations of being a brand influencer today, this is my journey with truth, silence, and survival. A raw reflection on why I’ve never learned to lie well, and why I’ve finally decided to embrace my truth, fully and publicly.
I knew I’d love Jordan, but nothing prepared me for just how deeply it would move me. From the rose-red wonder of Petra to the sacred silence of the Jordan River, every step felt like walking through history. I floated in the Dead Sea, climbed desert rocks in Wadi Rum, stood where Moses once stood, and laughed with strangers who became friends. Jordan wasn’t just a destination, it was a spiritual, cultural, and emotional experience that left an imprint on my heart. After visiting 54 countries, Jordan now ranks in my top three. Here’s why…
What began as a simple plan to visit Jordan turned into one of the most epic and soul-shifting journeys of my life.
I landed in Syria, crossed into Jordan, and then walked through the ancient streets of Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Jericho, names I’ve known all my life through Scripture. I prayed at the Western Wall, wept in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, walked the Via Dolorosa, and stood in the place where Jesus was born.
In those moments, songs burst from my lips, prayers welled up unprompted, and every stone beneath my feet whispered sacred stories. This wasn’t just travel, it was pilgrimage.
I came seeking history. I found presence. I came as a visitor. I left as a witness.
Chidumaga, I never walk alone.
I’ve crossed many borders, but land crossings have a special kind of chaos, equal parts bureaucracy, culture shock, and sometimes comedy. From paying “virgin passport” fees in West Africa to having my underwear shaken out at a Gambian checkpoint, I’ve learned that no two land borders are ever the same. Whether it’s hungry kids stuck in a car between Qatar and Saudi, or flexing through a gate with “European” Arabs suddenly fluent in Arabic, every crossing teaches patience, and sometimes, pure surrender. This is the story of how I’ve survived them all… and why I still trust God for grace at every gate.
There are countries I’ll visit to check off a list, and then there are countries that stir something deeper in me. Syria was one of those. I walked through the pages of history, stepped into sacred stories, and felt both heartbreak and beauty in every stone. This wasn’t just travel, it was a pilgrimage. And not for one moment did I feel unsafe.
That day, I made a vow to myself: never again would I accept gifts from men I wasn’t genuinely interested in. Because some gifts come wrapped in expectations. And some ‘nice gestures’ are just subtle manipulations. When you don’t give in, they show their true colors.
While exploring the catacombs of Lima’s San Francisco Basilica, surrounded by thousands of bones and the eerie presence of vultures, I found myself thinking about the burial traditions of my Igbo heritage, the taboos of Bonny land, and the bats that guard the Oba’s palace in Benin. In that quiet space between death and memory, I saw our shared humanity, and whispered a prayer for the dying.
After three miscarriages and countless tears, I found myself exploring surrogacy, not just as a medical option, but a legal and ethical maze. As a Nigerian woman married to a Dutch man, the complexities went beyond borders. Dutch law demanded altruism, while unregulated markets in places like Nigeria exposed heartbreaking exploitation. I found solace and insight in the ancient story of Hagar, the Bible’s first surrogate, and saw how her pain echoes in modern realities. Can surrogacy be ethical? Only if love leads, laws protect, and no woman is made invisible in the process.
Travel used to be about pictures and passport stamps. Now, it’s my classroom, my calling, and my way of reclaiming history.
From the slave forts of Ghana to the genocide memorials of Rwanda, and the haunted beauty of Curaçao’s colonial past, my journey has transformed. It’s no longer about ticking off cities but about understanding stories, stories of pain, resilience, and identity. I’ve walked the lands where my ancestors were taken, and I’m learning to listen to what the soil remembers.
This isn’t just travel. It’s relearning who I am, and where we’ve come from.
