Soma Ann

  How My First Ghostwriting Gig Taught Me the Power of Words I remember in 2018 when I got my first ghostwriting job. It isn’t anything big now, but back then, it was everything. I felt seen. I felt like, ‘finally, my writings would be appreciated and valued’. It was during my high school days when one of my schoolmates asked me to write a story about the love of his life. Very cliché, but not uncommon for teenage lovers. Chukwuma, his name, wanted to use a romantic, creative style to profess his love and ask Nkem out on a date — and hopefully get her to be his girlfriend. And just like every other cute, romantic supporter out there, I jumped at the offer and promised to deliver my best, which, compared to now, wasn’t much — but it still got the job done. I spent a whole two weeks with Chukwuma, trying to get every nitty-gritty detail he could tell me: how he met Nkem, what he liked about her at first, the little things he had come to admire about her, why he was choosing her over ...

A brilliant plan to be productive — until 3% battery and stubbornness stepped in. The day I decided to stop charging my phone at the port beside my bed and move it to the one at the far end of my room — at my reading table — I thought I was being wise, thoughtful, and intentional. I told myself it would help resuscitate my dying productivity levels. Eradicate my laziness. Make me get up in the morning. You know, grown-up stuff. I still don’t know what was going on with me that day. But today? Today, I can proudly say, I was stupid. Because now I’m lying in bed, staring at my phone screen flashing red with the bold declaration: 3%. And I am slowly discovering the full depth of that so-called wise decision. My eyes shift from the dying phone in my hand to the charger, sitting confidently in its new home — all the way across the room, where I, the Great Motivated Me, had placed it. It’s plugged in perfectly. Cord ready. Positioned like it’s waiting for me to come and kneel before i...

  Source: google.com A day of confessions and a heart full of questions. Today has been a difficult day. It started with a quiet conversation — the kind where someone finally says something out loud that they’ve been holding in for far too long. My friend confided in me about her suspicions that her dad is cheating. I didn’t know how to respond. What do you even say when someone tells you that the person they grew up trusting the most might be breaking that trust? I offered a few words, a hug, and silence. On my way back from her house, I got into a cab. The radio was on — some live talk show where people call in for advice. A woman’s voice came through, trembling, asking for help. Her husband had been unfaithful, and she didn’t know whether to stay or leave. I didn’t want to hear it. I couldn’t change the station. I just sat there, listening... feeling the weight of everything settle on my chest. By the time I got home, I felt sick. Not the kind of sick that needs medi...

A Reflection on Neglect, Regret, and the Spiritual House We Often Forget                                                   source: google Mr. Adam, aged 30, built a house in 2009 in his hometown—the place where he was born. It was a two-story modern mansion, beautifully furnished and well-decorated. The kind of house people pointed to and called a “rich man’s house.”                                                                But just ...

Ejike had just lost his father — no, not to the cold hands of death in the usual way. Unfortunately, it was to the hot, reckless hands of sickness. And not a complicated sickness like a heart transplant gone wrong or some rare liver disease. No, it was just malaria. Regular malaria — not the terminal stage, not the kind the doctors give up on. Simple malaria, the type that could be easily prevented and treated with a three-day course of the popular artemether medication. Ejike had been given an ultimatum: either his father or his work. No, scratch that — it wasn't an ultimatum; it was a family decision. Ejike had to go to the city, make money, and send it home. He was the only son; he needed to step into manhood and take responsibility. His parents had ensured he successfully left the village for Onitsha in Anambra State and were relieved when they heard he had gotten a job — well, more like an apprenticeship, learning on the job. The pay was good, though not abundant. At least i...