Somewhere in the world last week, two well-known businesswomen who had once been friends fell out very publicly on social media.

And when I say publicly, I mean publicly.

For days, social media became the battleground. Stories were told. Screenshots came out. Private conversations became public conversations. Things that had clearly been shared in confidence between friends were suddenly being presented as evidence against each other.

I watched some of it, and somewhere between the entertainment and the shock of it all, I kept thinking about one thing.

What happens to the gist when a friendship ends?

Because we talk a lot about female friendships, and rightly so. We tell women to build community. Find your girls. Have women around you who will hold you through different seasons of life. We talk about sisterhood and how important it is to have women you can be completely yourself with.

But I think we also need to talk about the responsibility that comes with being one of those women.

Because friendship gives you access.

You know things.

You know about the relationship she hasn’t told anyone about. You know what happened in her family. You know why she really left that job. You know what she’s insecure about. You know the thing she cried about at 1 a.m. You probably have voice notes that could ruin several people’s weekends.

You know these things because, at some point, this person trusted you enough to tell you.

And I don’t think the end of a friendship suddenly makes all of that information yours to share.

If someone told you something in confidence when you loved each other, it doesn’t suddenly become public information because you don’t love each other anymore.

We have to stop doing that.

Especially as women.

There is already this tired stereotype that women secretly hate each other. That female friendships are inherently competitive. That women are mean to other women. That eventually, your female friends will turn against you.

I hate that stereotype.

But every time we turn a friendship breakup into an exposé, we feed it.

Sometimes friendships end.

People change. People hurt each other. Sometimes you discover things about someone that make you realize you can no longer have them in your life. Sometimes there is betrayal. Sometimes there isn’t even a villain. You simply don’t work anymore.

That’s okay.

You are allowed to leave.

You are allowed to be angry.

You are allowed to say, “What she did to me was wrong.”

But I don’t think anger gives you ownership over someone’s secrets.

There are some things you know only because someone once felt safe with you.

Please let them remain safe with you.

And I also don’t think we need to rewrite an entire friendship just because it ended badly.

I’ve seen women fall out and suddenly it’s, “I never liked her anyway.” “She was always jealous of me.” “Let me tell you what she did three years ago.”

A friendship ending badly doesn’t mean every good part of it suddenly wasn’t real.

And while we’re here, can we talk about something else?

Your partner does not need to know all your friend’s gist.

I know. I know.

“But I tell my husband everything.”

Okay.

But your friend didn’t tell your husband everything.

She told you.

Not every conversation with your girls needs to become pillow talk later that night. If your friend shares something deeply personal with you, particularly something that isn’t yours to share, your relationship status doesn’t suddenly override her privacy.

The same applies to other friends.

Friend A tells you something and somehow Friend B, who doesn’t even know Friend A like that, now knows the entire story.

Why?

And please.

Stop forwarding people’s voice notes.

I don’t know when we collectively decided this was normal, but a voice note sent to you was sent to you. Unless the person has said you can share it, why is their voice travelling through three different group chats?

We need better gist etiquette.

Maybe we even need some friendship rules.

Don’t weaponize something someone told you when they were vulnerable.

Don’t expose someone’s secrets because you’re angry.

Don’t forward private voice notes.

Don’t assume your partner automatically has clearance to know everything your friends tell you.

Don’t carry one friend’s private business to another friend for entertainment.

And obviously, I’m not talking about situations where someone is in danger or something genuinely harmful is happening. There are things we shouldn’t keep quiet about simply because someone told us in confidence.

I’m talking about the personal things people tell us because they trust us.

Their relationships. Their family problems. Their insecurities. Their mistakes. Their fears. The embarrassing stories. The things they haven’t figured out yet. All the random gist that comes with being close to another person.

Those things don’t become ammunition when the friendship ends.

And maybe we should also be more intentional about who we become friends with in the first place.

Not every useful connection needs to become a friendship.

Not everyone you admire needs access to your private life.

And please don’t build friendships solely around what you think someone can do for you.

Build friendships with people whose values align with yours. People you genuinely like. People you can disagree with without immediately becoming enemies. People who understand that closeness comes with responsibility.

And if it stops working, that’s okay too.

Sometimes the most mature thing two people can do is let a friendship end.

No exposé.

No Instagram Live.

No seven-part story time.

No “Since she wants to go there, let me tell you what she REALLY did in 2019.”

Just...

We are no longer friends.

And move on.

I think there is something to be said for knowing enough about someone to embarrass them and still choosing not to.

Not because you owe them your friendship forever.

Not because what they did to you wasn’t wrong.

But because you have standards for yourself.

The friendship may have ended badly, but you don’t have to become someone you don’t respect because of it.

The friendship can end. The gist stays.

— Scarfs 🤍

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The banner in the picture above is real.

It was not a joke, or a mock-up, or a bad first draft someone caught in time. It was written, approved, printed, and mounted by the student affairs division of a “prestigious” university. It is the same office a girl is supposed to walk into when something has happened to her.

And what it tells her, in bold, is that there was something she could have done differently.

It is crazy, and sadly not surprising to me, that counsellors, learned people, people whose entire job is care, are still handing women a checklist for avoiding assault. As though harassment is weather. As though there is a way to dress for it.

What angers me most is that we have the examples. Countless ones. We have watched them play out publicly, repeatedly, in ways that should have settled this argument for good. And it is still not enough for people to know better.

I have been trying to write about this for a while. This banner is what finally made me sit down.

Because recently, a Nollywood actor from the Yoruba division, convicted in court for assaulting a minor, was released. And everything that has happened since has been nothing short of shameful.

He was not quietly reabsorbed into society; he was welcomed back. He found advocates willing to argue his case in public, that he had been lured, that the child had trapped him. Grown women lined up to defend him.

It got to the point where people began circulating the video of the act itself, as evidence, to prove the crime had indeed happened. I understand the impulse. But well-intentioned or not, all it does is force a girl to relive the worst thing that has ever happened to her, over and over, in public, for an audience that has already made up its mind.

Which brings me to the question this question: Is there really such a thing as a perfect victim?

Because if being a child, being caught on tape, and being convicted in a court of law with hard evidence is not enough for society to unanimously protect the victim, what would be? What is left to prove? What else was she supposed to be?

I am not asking because I want an answer. I am asking because I want us as women to stop carrying blame that was never ours to carry.

You were not harassed as a teenager because you “looked older than your mates.”

You were not assaulted because you were “too friendly with a stranger.”

Not because your dress was “too provocative.”

Not because you smiled. Not because you didn’t smile.

For every reason you have ever been given for what happened to you, there is a woman who did the exact opposite and it happened to her anyway. The reasons don’t hold. They were never reasons. They were excuses, assembled after the fact, to make a violent thing feel explainable, and to make the rest of us feel safer than we are.

There is one reason a person is assaulted: someone chose to assault them. That is the whole list.

I am saying this because we are growing. We are becoming the aunties, the mothers, the lecturers, the HR managers, the counsellors. We are becoming the society. The women defending that man were somebody’s daughter once, too.

So we have to be careful about what we inherit and what we agree to pass on. We cannot become the voice that asks her what she was wearing. We cannot become the woman who says but she was too friendly.

We cannot become the office that prints the banner.

Welcome back to the Monthly Unwrap.

Once a month, we pause the essays and the deep conversations to simply catch up. No grand life lessons, just the little moments that made up the month. Here’s what July looked like for us.

Scarves’ month

July reminded me how much I enjoy simply being outside.

It wasn’t necessarily a month of big milestones. It was more a month of little adventures.

My soundtrack for almost the entire month was Happy People by Asa. I don’t know what she put in that song, but every time it came on, I smiled. It reminds me of Nigerian women dressing up for owambes, laughing loudly, dancing without apology, and simply enjoying life. It became the unofficial soundtrack to my July.

Speaking of joy, I somehow ended up in a tiny boat at a children’s water park.

Yes.

A children’s boat.

And I had an amazing time.

I’m slowly learning that fun doesn’t have an expiry date.

One weekend I visited an Air Force museum. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it as much as I did, but walking around all those aircraft and learning the stories behind them was genuinely fascinating. Sometimes it’s nice to spend an afternoon learning something completely outside your world.

It was also my dad’s birthday this month. I helped pick out fabric for his outfit from miles away, but my family committed what I consider a personal offense: they waited for my younger sister to get home from university before cutting the birthday cake.

I’m still slightly jealous.

Living far away has a funny way of making you miss the smallest family moments.

One thing I’m proud of this month is that I actually left the house.

A lot.

I visited parks, coffee shops, gardens, little towns, and one beautiful waterfront city that completely surprised me. July wasn’t the easiest month, but getting outside made it feel lighter somehow.

Sometimes touching grass really does help.

Cornrows’ month

July was a month of milestones around here.

The biggest one?

Our little one is officially walking.

Watching those first confident little steps felt like watching someone discover an entirely new world. It’s incredible how quickly they grow, and somehow every new milestone feels just as exciting as the last.

We're also slowly saying goodbye to formula and introducing regular milk, and somewhere along the way I've become the kind of person who studies ingredient labels like they're exam questions. At one point, I even asked ChatGPT to analyze the ingredient list of a particular milk to see if it was safe for her.

Another transition this month was moving away from bottles and introducing a straw cup.

If you’ve ever done this with a toddler...

You’ll understand why the Arthur meme with tired eyes perfectly summarizes the experience.

Thankfully, there were brighter moments too.

Friends were still dropping off birthday gifts from our little one’s birthday, which was incredibly thoughtful. It’s always lovely when celebrations linger a little longer than expected.

And somewhere between parenting, work, and life, we also started looking at bridesmaid dresses for a friend’s wedding next year.

Who doesn’t love a little window shopping?

To end the month, I finally watched Scenes from a Marriage.

It was easily my favorite thing I watched all month. Beautiful, uncomfortable, honest, and one of those stories that lingers in your mind long after it’s over.

Now your turn.

That’s our July, unwrapped.

What made your month?

Maybe it was a big milestone. Maybe it was finally reading that book, trying a new restaurant, surviving a difficult week, or simply finding one good song to play on repeat.

Tell us in the comments.

We’re listening. 💛

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I was watching a TikTok recently where a woman narrated a story from a wedding she’d attended. At some point, the MC played a matchmaking game and called all the single men and women to come forward. To her shock, a man she personally knew to be legally married with two kids stepped out as a single man, ready to play.

But what caught me wasn’t the story. It was the comment section. Person after person wrote some version of the same thing: men will stain your white. For readers not familiar with the lingo, it means a man has embarrassed you, disgraced you, dragged your good name through the mud with his behaviour.

And just like that, we have somehow found a way to make the shame bigger for the woman who was betrayed than for the man who did the betraying.

This is not a strange phenomenon in our world. It is why a woman can discover something egregious about her relationship and go straight to internalizing it as her failure. She isn’t only nursing the pain of being blindsided. She is also carrying a shame that was never hers to hold.

And because I don’t think anything happens in isolation, I suspect this reflex leaks into everything else. It’s the same instinct that has you apologizing at work for something that isn’t your fault. The same one that keeps you frozen in an awful spot because you’re terrified of being blamed. Somewhere along the way, we were taught that a woman should have been smart enough to foresee her partner’s betrayal, as though loving someone in good faith is a lapse in judgment.

I think this mindset is far more damaging than we let ourselves see.

So the next time a friend opens up to you about a cheating partner, or you stumble on someone in a compromising situation, let your first instinct not be to measure the shame he has brought on her. Let it be this instead: look at how thoroughly he has stained his own white.

This week, I thought I’d switch things up a little.

You guys probably don’t know this about me, but I absolutely love health, beauty, wellness, and home remedies. I’m endlessly curious about how everyday ingredients can be used in different ways. I’m the type of person who will open my kitchen cupboards before buying another product because I’m always fascinated by how many ordinary things can be used for so much more.

These aren't medical recommendations—just little things that have worked for me over the years. Some came from my mum, some from experimenting, and some I've picked up along the way. They may not work for everyone, but they've definitely earned a place in my little collection, so I thought I'd let my girls in on a few of them.

🍯 Honey is honestly one of my favorite ingredients. I think it’s liquid gold. I use it for acne, as a deep moisturizer for my hair (especially mixed with egg), and years ago, when I accidentally poured hot water on my hand, I immediately applied raw honey. I kept using it for about a week, and today you can barely see the scar.

🌿 Raw aloe vera is my holy grail. As a teenager, I used it for almost everything—acne, dark spots, scars, stretch marks, dry skin, and my hair. If something was wrong, chances were I was reaching for aloe vera.

🍅 Tomatoes honestly surprised me. When I had really bad acne, I started using them, and they worked really well for me. My skin became so clear and glowy that I remember wondering, “Why isn’t everyone talking about tomatoes?” Whether it was the tomatoes, time, or everything else I was doing, it’s one of those home remedies I’ve never forgotten.

🧅 Onion juice helped my edges grow back once. It wasn’t the nicest-smelling routine, but I definitely noticed new growth. Looking at my hair these days... I think it’s time to bring it back.

🍎 Apple cider vinegar is something most people already know about, but not many people know it can also be useful for rashes. I remember my mum using it on my sister’s rash years ago, and it worked so well that I’ve always kept a bottle at home ever since.

🫚 Ginger is another favorite of mine. I’ve used it on my skin before, and whenever I feel a sore throat coming on, ginger is usually the first thing I reach for in the morning.

🍵 Green tea is one of my go-to drinks whenever I’m feeling bloated. Simple, comforting, and something I almost always have at home.

🌶️ One of my favorite wellness drinks is cloves, ginger, lemon, and a little cayenne pepper boiled together. I especially enjoy it after a heavy meal or when I’m feeling bloated.

☕ Clove water has a few other interesting uses too... but you’ll have to catch me off camera for that conversation. 😂

🚶🏾‍♀️ One habit that has really helped me is taking a 10–15 minute walk after eating. It’s such a simple habit, but one I’ve stuck with because it just makes me feel better.

🍽️ If I’m having sweet snacks, I usually eat them after a proper meal instead of on an empty stomach. I also try to eat in this order: fiber first, then protein, then carbohydrates. I’ve found it really helps with my sugar cravings.

🍋 If you’ve cooked fish and your kitchen won’t let you forget it, boil water with cinnamon sticks and lemon for a couple of minutes, then let it simmer. Your whole kitchen smells amazing afterward.

🧂 Whenever I have gum pain, salt is one of the first things I reach for. I mix it with warm water, rinse my mouth, and it usually helps ease the pain. It’s such a simple remedy, but one I’ve gone back to over and over again.

I absolutely love how multipurpose some of our everyday food ingredients are. Sometimes the most ordinary things end up being the most useful.

There are still so many things I want to try. I’m thinking of bringing onion juice back for my edges (because they could definitely use the help 😂), and I have a feeling my collection of little home remedies is only going to keep growing.

Now I’m curious...

What's one home remedy or random kitchen hack you'll always swear by? And please... don't say okra water. 😂

I’d genuinely love to add a few more to my collection.

— Scarfs 🤍

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An artist on Twitter recently shared her artwork about motherly abuse. I'm deliberately not linking the post. The replies, where women narrated their own experiences, could be triggering, and if you want to find the conversation, it isn't hard.

What struck me wasn’t just the artwork. It was the replies. Woman after woman describing what it cost them to be raised by the person who was supposed to be their softest place to land.

It reminded me of another thread from a while back, the one urging us to be kinder to our mothers because it’s their first time too. I agreed. To a large degree, I still do.

But reading story after story of mothers inflicting physical, emotional, and financial harm on their children is giving me a rethink. Because as someone rightly countered under that thread: it’s my first time on earth too. Can my mother be nicer to me?

Both things are true and that’s a problem.

The thing nobody wants to name

Here’s what I actually want to talk about: the complicated dynamic between mothers and daughters.

I can attest to it myself. I love my mum. I’m grateful for the bond we have now. But it took years of healing and effort from both of us to get here.

Mine wasn’t abuse. But I spent a long time feeling profoundly misunderstood. I wanted her to see where I was coming from. I felt crushed by what she expected from me as her only daughter: the assumption that I am a tough girl who could absorb whatever needed absorbing. Thankfully, we found our way through.

And I know my version is a soft one. So many women carry heavier things:

• Mothers who are harder on their daughters than on their sons, and call it preparation

• Mothers who turn to their daughters for the intimacy their partners never gave them

• Mothers who resent their daughters for choosing a different life

• Mothers who try to live out their own unlived life through their daughters’ bodies and choices

• Mothers who see their daughters as competition, for attention, for beauty, for youth, for the father’s affection

I could go on. You could probably add to the list without thinking hard.

Why “it was her first time too” isn’t enough

I want to be careful here, because context matters and I don’t want to flatten our mothers into villains.

Many of them were girls raising girls. Married before they knew themselves. Handed a child and told that love would be enough. Denied education, denied money of their own, denied the language to name what was happening to them. Some were being harmed themselves, in the same house, on the same day they harmed us.

Understanding that matters. But understanding is not absolution, and explanation is not permission. You can hold enormous compassion for the conditions that shaped your mother and still say clearly: what happened to me was not okay, and it changed me.

Because it doesn’t stay in the house

This is what makes it urgent rather than just sad.

The wounds don’t stay where they were made. They follow you into your friendships, where you can’t tell the difference between love and being needed. Into your marriage, where you either over-give or brace for impact. Into your work, where criticism lands like a verdict. Into your own mothering, where you hear her voice come out of your mouth and freeze.

And there’s a cruelty in the timing. By the time you’re grown enough to understand what happened, you’re also old enough that nobody wants to hear about it. That was years ago. She’s your mother. She did her best. Have you seen how old she is now? The window for being taken seriously closes right when you finally have the words.

So you swallow it. And swallowed things don’t disappear. They get passed on.

So how do we stop the cycle?

This is the question I have for us: how do we make sure we don’t do it to our daughters?

I don’t have a complete answer. I’m in the middle of it myself, raising a small child and watching my own reflexes with real suspicion. But here’s where I’ve landed so far:

Name it before you can explain it. You don’t need a diagnosis or a therapist’s vocabulary to admit something hurt. “That wasn’t okay” is a complete sentence.

Watch your reflexes, not your intentions. Nobody plans to repeat it. It comes out sideways, in the tone, the silence, the withdrawal of warmth as punishment. Intention doesn’t protect anyone. Attention might.

Let your daughter be a whole person, not your second chance. Her life is not a redraft of yours. Her choices are not a referendum on yours.

Find your emotional support among adults. This is the one I want tattooed somewhere. Your daughter is not your therapist, your confidante, your marriage counsellor, or your friend of last resort. She is a child. Let her be one.

Apologize to her. Out loud. Specifically. You will get it wrong, and that’s not the failure. The failure is the silence afterwards that teaches her her feelings are inconvenient. A mother who says I was wrong, I’m sorry is teaching her daughter that she deserves accountability from the people who love her. That lesson will protect her for life.

Get help where you can find it. I know therapy is expensive here, and finding someone who understands our context is harder still. But it isn’t the only door. There are books, podcasts, and free content that go deep on this, and I think I should put together a playlist of free resources on this exact topic.

And if this is you

If you’re reading this and you were, or are, a victim of parental abuse, particularly from your mother:

I’m sorry. I’m sorry you lived through it. I’m sorry if you’re still living it. I’m sorry for every time someone told you to be grateful, or to let it go, or reminded you that she carried you for nine months as though that settled the matter.

It didn’t settle it. You’re allowed to love her and grieve what she couldn’t give you. You’re allowed to keep your distance and still hope she’s well. You’re allowed to be the one who stops it.

Being the one who stops it is not betrayal. It’s the highest form of love, the kind that reaches backwards to make peace and forwards to protect.

I was talking to someone recently and found myself saying something I had never really stopped to think about before. I mentioned that being a conventionally attractive woman had shaped some of my experiences. After the conversation ended, I sat there thinking: what does “conventionally attractive” even mean? Who decided what was conventional? According to which country? Which decade? Which culture? And if beauty standards keep changing, can they really be called standards at all?

I don’t think women ever really get to just exist. Somebody always has an opinion. Too skinny. Too fat. Too dark. Too light. Too tall. Too short. There always seems to be something about our bodies that needs fixing. And the funny thing is that the standard never stays the same. Every few years, somebody somewhere decides there is a new version of the “ideal woman,” and somehow the rest of us are expected to catch up. The finish line keeps moving, but women keep running.

When I was younger, all I wanted was to gain weight. I remember taking a supplement called Apetamin because being fuller was considered beautiful. I also remember trying skin-lightening products because lighter skin was often celebrated where I grew up. People made comments about my legs, and like many young girls, I quietly started believing there was something wrong with me. Looking back now, it feels strange. Not because I was insecure—I think most girls are at some point—but because I was changing myself to fit a beauty standard that wasn’t even permanent. At the time, it never occurred to me that the standard itself might be the problem. I thought I was.

Sometimes I think about that younger version of myself. I wish I could tell her to leave her body alone. To stop worrying about whether she was full enough or light enough. To stop believing every comment people made about her appearance. Because there was never anything wrong with her in the first place. She was simply trying to survive in a world that kept telling her she needed to become somebody else.

Growing up in Nigeria, we even had names for people’s body types and skin tones. Lepa. Orobo. Yellow Pawpaw. They were thrown around so casually that we hardly questioned them. Some of us laughed along. Some of us were the ones being laughed at. But I don’t think we realize how deeply those names stay with people. Imagine being ten years old and already learning that your body is something other people are allowed to judge. That before you have even figured out who you are, you are already trying to become somebody else’s idea of beautiful. We laughed because everyone else laughed. We didn’t realize we were teaching children to look at themselves through someone else’s eyes.

The funny thing about beauty standards is that they never stay still. Think about the women many of us grew up watching. There was the era of “Bootylicious,” where Beyoncé celebrated curves. Then came the slim-thick era, heavily influenced by women like Kim Kardashian. Today, the conversation has shifted again. The ultra-thin body is making a comeback. Social media is full of Ozempic conversations, Pilates bodies, and endless advice on becoming smaller. The same body millions of women were chasing just a few years ago is suddenly no longer the body everyone wants. Our bodies have not changed nearly as fast as beauty standards have.

The older I get, the more I also realize that beauty is incredibly cultural. Move to another country and the standard changes. Travel across continents, and suddenly the features people criticized become the features everyone admires. In many parts of Africa, liposuction and BBLs are still booming because fuller bodies are celebrated. Meanwhile, in many Western countries, the conversation has shifted towards aiming to be as slim as possible. Some cultures celebrate lighter skin, others spend fortunes trying to tan. Some admire straight hair, others spend hours trying to create curls. If beauty changes depending on where you are born, who decided there was one correct version in the first place? And how can something so temporary become the measure of our worth?

The part that worries me most isn’t that beauty standards exist. It is what they do to women and young girls. We spend years believing our bodies are projects that need constant improvement. We grow up thinking beauty is something we earn rather than something we simply possess. By the time many of us become adults, we have spent more time trying to fix ourselves than getting to know ourselves. I sometimes wonder how much of our lives we lose trying to become acceptable to people who will simply move the goalpost again.

And then I started thinking about the businesses behind all of this. There are billions of dollars made every year convincing women that they are almost beautiful—but not quite. Just enough to keep buying. Just enough to keep comparing. Just enough to keep chasing. There is always one more product, one more treatment, one more procedure, one more trend. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if women collectively woke up one morning and decided they were enough. How many industries would have to reinvent themselves?

Maybe that is why the idea of “conventional beauty” no longer makes much sense to me. I don’t think “conventionally attractive” means universally attractive. I think it simply means the version of beauty that is most rewarded by a particular society at a particular moment in time. Conventional according to whom? According to which country? According to which decade? According to which social media algorithm? Beauty standards are constantly changing, but we treat them as though they are permanent truths. They aren’t. They are trends. And trends, by definition, don’t last.

Maybe there was never anything wrong with your body.

Maybe you were simply born into a different trend.

The older I get, the less interested I am in chasing beauty standards that refuse to stay still. I would rather spend that energy becoming comfortable in a body that has carried me through every version of my life. Because if history has taught us anything, it is this: the trend will change again.

I just hope that by the time it does, we have stopped changing ourselves with it.

Maybe the most beautiful thing we can do is finally let ourselves be.

— Scarfs 🤍

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Welcome to the Monthly Unwrap, a new little ritual here at Cornrows & Scarves. On the last Wednesday of every month, we're pulling back the curtain just a bit to share what our month actually looked like. Think of it as the two of us letting you into our world a little more, one month at a time, so we can get to know each other beyond the words on the page. Here's how our June went.

Scarves’ month

Honestly? It was a quiet one. No big highlight reel, and I’ve made peace with that. My mood all month could be summed up in one dramatic, slightly unhinged doll photo. This one:

But quiet doesn’t mean empty. I moved into a new neighborhood and I’ve fallen a little in love with it. I try to walk every other evening, and every walk turns into a flower appreciation tour. The coneflowers, the roses, all of it. I really do love flowers. They’re just so beautiful.

I visited a mountain with a lake tucked into it and felt genuinely relaxed for the first time in a while. There was a dinner date at a fancy restaurant with one of my annoying guy friends (the food was… okay). I discovered the city has plenty of malls. And I ate an alarming number of cookies. Fit fam in the mud, truly.

No grand highlights this month. But I’m grateful for the ordinary things: life, good health, a sound mind, shelter, food, family, and friends. Sometimes that’s the whole highlight.

Cornrows’ month

June was lovely. Okay, it was a mixed bag if I’m honest, but the good outweighed the rest.

The biggest highlight, hands down: my daughter turned one. I have a whole one-year-old now, and there’s something wild and wonderful about that. We celebrated, and my heart is still full.

Work was… a bit of everything. There were tears and a few panic spirals early on (some work stress, a little health scare thrown in), but it evened out.

Then came the good stuff. I took a work trip to the UK, my first time, and ate a truly unhinged amount of soup noodles. I got to do some touristy things, and wrapped the month with a beach day alongside some of my girlfriends.

Other small joys: yelling at the TV during Love Island with the girls (genuinely, what is happening on that show), and finally getting my hands on some books I’ve been hunting for years, out of publication and long on my wishlist.

So yes, there was crying and there was panic. But there was also a first birthday, soup noodles, the beach, and girlfriends. Lovely month.

Now your turn.

That's our month, unwrapped. We'd love to know about yours. What was your highlight, big or small? A quiet moment, a good meal, a win you're proud of, or simply making it through? Drop it in the comments. We're all ears. 💛

This week, my heart has been heavy.

For days now, I have been seeing story after story about women being hurt. Different countries. Different communities. Different circumstances. Different forms of abuse. Physical. Emotional. Mental. Psychological. Sometimes by strangers, but far too often by the very people who are supposed to love them.

I struggled with what to write this week. Usually, I have a clear idea of where I want an article to go. This week was different. Every time I sat down to write, I found myself thinking about the women behind these stories. The women living through things many of us cannot imagine. The women are carrying pain in silence. The women trying to survive.

And more than anything, I found myself thinking about women being hurt by the people closest to them. A husband. A boyfriend. A parent. A family member. Someone whose name should feel like safety but instead feels like fear.

If somehow this article finds its way to one of those women, then this is for you.

I don’t know your story. I don’t know what your days look like. I don’t know what you have endured or what you are currently carrying. But I want you to know something that I hope you never forget: there is life outside that person.

I know that it may be difficult to believe right now. Sometimes pain has a way of shrinking the world until all you can see is the person hurting you. Sometimes abuse convinces people that they cannot survive without the person causing the harm. It tells them they are trapped. It tells them nobody else will love them. It tells them that leaving would be harder than staying.

But there is life outside that person.

There is laughter outside that person.

There is peace outside that person.

There is a version of you that is not constantly afraid. A version of you that does not have to carefully manage someone else’s anger. A version of you that wakes up and does not feel the weight of fear sitting on her chest.

And I hope you meet her one day.

I know courage is not easy. In fact, courage might be one of the hardest things in the world. People talk about courage as if it is a dramatic moment, but sometimes courage looks much smaller than that. Sometimes courage is telling one trusted person the truth. Sometimes courage is admitting to yourself that something is wrong. Sometimes courage is asking for help. Sometimes courage is simply refusing to give up on yourself.

And I know it is easier said than done.

I know there are women reading this who have children. Women whose finances are tied to the very person hurting them. Women who have nowhere obvious to go. Women who are terrified of what happens next. Women who have been made to believe that enduring suffering is somehow proof of love.

It isn’t.

Love should not leave you broken.

Love should not leave you afraid.

Love should not require you to disappear.

So this week, more than anything, I just want to ask you to keep hope alive.

Talk to someone.

Tell someone.

Reach for help.

Cry if you need to.

Rest if you need to.

Take one small step if that is all you can manage.

But please don’t let this become the end of your story.

There is so much life waiting for you. There are people you have not met yet. Places you have not seen yet. Joy you have not experienced yet. There are still chapters of your life that have not been written.

And as long as you are alive, there is possibility.

There is another chapter.

There is a way forward.

This is my love letter to you.

Not because I have all the answers, but because my heart has been heavy all week and I could not stop thinking about you.

You matter.

Your life matters.

And I am rooting for your freedom.

— Scarfs 🤍

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We talk often about community: how much we need it, how it shields us as women, how it lets us flourish and grow together. But here's the question we tend to skip over: how are we, as individuals, meaningfully contributing to it?

It’s easy to want community. It’s harder to be one. The warmth we crave doesn’t arrive on its own; it’s built, person by person, gesture by gesture, by women who decided to show up before they were asked.

So this week, instead of telling you what community should look like, we’re handing you a mirror. Below are ten questions. Give yourself one point for every “yes.” Be honest. No one is watching, and the only person who benefits from the truth is you.

If you score less than 5, consider this a gentle nudge: it’s time to step up and do better at building the community we all clamour for. If you score higher, wonderful, but read the questions you missed as your invitation to grow.

The Questions

1. When a friend shares good news, a promotion, an engagement, a small win, do you celebrate her loudly and made a big deal of it for them?

2. In the last month, have you checked in on someone without needing anything from her in return?

3. When someone in your circle is going through something hard, are you the kind of presence that shows up with a meal, a voice note, a “I’m coming over,” and not just a sympathetic emoji?

4. Do you make space for women whose lives look nothing like yours, different ages, life stages, beliefs, tax brackets, or does your community quietly look like a mirror of yourself?

5. When you receive advice, a connection, a recommendation, an opportunity, do you reliably pass it on to another woman who could use it?

6. Can you sit with a friend’s success that outpaces your own and still cheer, without making it about you, your timeline, or your lack?

7. Do you give people room to be human, to cancel, to fumble, to disappear for a season, without keeping score or holding it against them?

8. When there’s tension or a misunderstanding, do you move toward repair rather than letting the silence harden into distance?

9. Have you offered something of yourself lately, your time, your skill, your home, your honesty, to someone who didn’t, or couldn’t, repay you?

10. Are you the friend others feel safe with, the one who keeps confidences, speaks well of the absent, and doesn’t trade in other women’s stories?

Your Score

8–10: You are the soil others grow in. Keep tending it, and gently bring someone newer along with you.

5–7: You’re showing up, and that matters. Look at the questions you couldn’t answer “yes” to. They’re not failures; they’re your next edge.

Below 5: No shame, but no hiding either. The community you long for is being built by women who do the very things you just skipped past. The good news? Every one of these is a choice available to you today. Pick one. Start there.

Community isn’t something we find. It’s something we become. So, where will you begin?

There is a popular saying where I come from: “Whenever you wake up is your own morning.” The older I get, the more I understand what that means.

We spend so much of our lives looking at the clock.

Too old.

Too late.

Too behind.

Especially as women, I think we carry the weight of timelines heavily. There always seems to be a clock hanging over our heads. A clock for marriage. A clock for children. A clock for beauty. A clock for career success. A clock for everything. Before you know it, you are measuring your life against deadlines that nobody officially gave you.

By this age, you should have the career figured out. By this age, you should be married. By this age, you should have children. By this age, you should know exactly who you are and where you are going. And when life doesn’t follow that timeline, many of us quietly begin mourning a life that is still very much alive.

And yes, to be fair, there are some physiological timelines as humans. Our bodies change. Our strength changes. Reproduction has biological realities. Certain things become harder with age, and that is normal.

But who decided there was only one timeline?

Who decided there was only one train leaving the station?

I remember reading about Mo Abudu and learning that EbonyLife came after an entire career in human resources when she was about forty-eight years old. Vera Wang worked as a journalist and editor before designing her first bridal gown in her forties. Arianna Huffington launched The Huffington Post at fifty-five.

And those are just the famous examples.

There are countless women quietly reinventing themselves every day. Women changing careers, going back to school, starting businesses, learning new skills, and choosing a different path from the one they originally planned.

The lesson is not that everyone must become a media mogul or build a global company. The lesson is that age is not always the barrier we think it is. Sometimes the biggest barrier is the story we tell ourselves about age.

Recently, I came across Dr. Oni on Instagram. She started medical school at thirty-seven while raising children. Thirty-seven.

I sat there thinking about how many times she must have been tempted to believe it was too late.

Or maybe nobody told her it was too late.

Maybe she told herself.

Because sometimes the loudest timelines are the ones in our own heads.

She is such an inspiration to me. I believe she even went through residency while pregnant. Imagine that.

Another person I love is the Nigerian creator Mariam Bakare, known on Instagram as Mory Coco. What I admire about her is not necessarily her success. It is her willingness to try things.

She wrote a book. Went to culinary school. Created content. Started a podcast. Became an esthetician. And she seems completely comfortable exploring different parts of herself.

Honestly, I find that inspiring.

And that is really the point I am trying to make.

I am not even talking only about women who started businesses in their forties or went back to school in their fifties.

I am talking about all of us.

About the importance of continuing.

About not allowing timelines to become cages.

Maybe there is something you have wanted to do for years.

Maybe it is a business.

Maybe it is writing.

Maybe it is a degree.

Maybe it is something that makes absolutely no sense to anybody but you.

If you think you can, and you have the opportunity, why not try?

Trust me, I know it is easier said than done. Especially if you are anything like me.

I procrastinate.

I overthink.

I talk myself out of things.

But what if you fly?

And honestly, what if you don’t?

Maybe success is not even the point.

Maybe the point is that you tried.

Maybe the point is that you allowed yourself to be curious.

That you gave yourself permission to explore a version of yourself that would have otherwise remained hidden.

Some of the things I have done were not successful in the traditional sense. They did not become careers. They did not make money. They did not become anything extraordinary.

But I am still glad I did them.

Not many people know this, but in 2017 I was a presenter and red carpet host for a music channel. It was never something I planned to build a career around, and honestly, I probably would not do it again today.

But I wanted to try it.

So I did.

I was also in a music video once.

Even typing that makes me laugh.

It felt strange. It felt random. It felt very unlike me.

But I did it anyway.

And that is exactly my point.

Not everything has to become your life’s work.

Not everything has to be groundbreaking.

Not everything has to turn into success in the traditional sense.

Sometimes the value is simply in the experience.

In trying.

In exploring.

In giving yourself permission to live a little.

There is a certain kind of fulfillment that comes from giving an idea a chance to live.

That brings me to another thing I strongly believe.

Who said you have to be one thing for the rest of your life?

Who said you only get one version of yourself?

You can be a banker and a writer. A mother and an entrepreneur. A professor and an artist.

Life is not always about choosing one identity and staying there forever. Sometimes it is about giving yourself permission to evolve. To be curious. To start again.

I have noticed that society tends to give men more room to reinvent themselves. A man can have five different careers and people call him ambitious. A woman changes direction a few times and suddenly people start asking if she knows what she is doing.

But why shouldn’t she?

Why shouldn’t you?

If you have worked in a bank for seven years and suddenly discover you want to become a designer, why not?

If you are forty and want to go back to school, why not?

If you are fifty and want to start a business, why not?

If you have spent most of your adult life raising children, and now the kids are grown and out of the house, and you suddenly feel called to do something completely different, please do it.

Write the book.

Take the class.

Learn the skill.

Start the business.

Apply for the degree.

Yes, some things become harder with time.

That is true.

But harder does not mean impossible.

And as long as there is life, there is possibility.

Maybe I am writing this because I need the reminder too.

Maybe this is one of those articles where I am talking to myself and letting you listen.

Because there are dreams I still have.

There are things I still want to try.

There are versions of myself I have not met yet.

And I hope I never get to a point where I decide the story is over before it actually is.

One of the saddest things we can do is bury our dreams while we are still alive. To stop trying before life tells us to stop. To convince ourselves that it is too late when there is still time left.

Don’t die before death comes.

The world is hard. Life is unfair sometimes. Things do not always happen when we want them to.

But your story is still being written.

Your timeline is not wrong because it looks different.

And whenever you wake up, that is your morning.

— Scarfs 🤍

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I think I was around 14 or 15 when the boy I had a crush on mentioned that he liked girls who weren’t too girly, and I decided to stop liking pink for a very long time. Even years later, when I picked up loving colors again, I couldn’t even remember why I’d stopped in the first place.

Does this sound familiar? I think a lot of us have some version of this experience, where we decide that something we love is no longer cool simply because a boy decided it wasn’t. And often, the boy isn’t even aware that you’re dumping your interests to be likable to him.

And when I say “pink,” I don’t just mean the color. Pink is shorthand for all the soft, joyful, unapologetically feminine things we’re quietly taught to be embarrassed about: the hobbies, the obsessions, the way we dress, the things that make us giddy. It’s whatever you’ve ever downplayed or hidden so you’d be taken more seriously, or so a boy, a boss, or the world would find you easier to swallow. Your pink is yours. This is about protecting it.

Over the years, I’ve paid attention to the ways society (because both men and women are guilty here) finds to shit on the little things women enjoy, whether intentionally or not. A few examples: watching K-dramas, reading fiction, doing photoshoots, among others. Even little things like names. It’s crazy how women calling themselves “baddies” triggers the worst responses in people.

This even bleeds into business. People will trivialize women-focused ventures, from makeup artistry to lash tech, and yet these are million-dollar industries. Cooking is another one I find telling: it’s supposedly no big deal when a woman does it at home, but once it’s commercialized and plated in a fine-dining restaurant, the celebrated names at the top are mostly men.

And it’s not lost on me how these same folks turn around, rebrand these activities, and even make a living off them. It’s why I side-eye men who build skits around the experiences of women, especially in a mocking tone, while still counting women as their primary audience. Not too long ago in Nigeria, a skit maker whose main character is a woman was invited to a Women’s Day panel to speak about women’s experiences. And the frustrating part for me was that he dressed up as the unflattering version of this woman.

It’s also why it hurts me to see women denounce the label “feminist” because of its bad reputation. Why dwell on the “bad” part of feminism when you could amplify the good that you and I both know it is doing, and will keep doing, for women? Everyone recognizes the power of community organizing when it comes to other causes, but feminism is where you want to draw the line as a woman, simply because you don’t want to come off as combative, bad, or unruly.

Here’s what I’ve come to know for sure: our pink is not frivolous. It is the thing that fills us back up. The novel you disappear into after a brutal week, the dance that loosens something tight in your chest, the group chat that catches you when you fall. It is part of how we stay whole, how we stay soft in a world that keeps asking us to harden. The women I admire most are not the ones who gave up their pink to be taken seriously. They are the ones who kept it, loudly, and dared the world to keep up.

My point in this very long rant is to talk to us as girls, ladies, and women: be fiercely protective of the things that spark joy in you. The “little” hobbies, knitting, dancing, writing, book clubbing, that the world wants to tell you don’t matter? They do.

Because protecting your pink was never only about you. Every time you refuse to shrink it, you make a little more room for the next woman to keep hers. You teach the girl watching you that her joy is not up for negotiation. You chip at the idea that anything women love is automatically lesser. The personal hobby and the bigger fight are the same fight: both are about insisting that what we value gets to count.

Life comes in seasons, and especially as a woman in this clime, with so much expected of you, it’s important to find ways to fill your own cup and do things that are truly only for you and no one else.

So ladies, love and wear your ‘pink’ loudly and proudly today!

I used to be one of those women who said, “I don’t really get along with female friends.” Looking back now, I realize I had simply fallen into a stereotype that many of us are taught to believe, and I just didn’t know what I was missing.

I think many women have been sold the idea that female friendships are difficult. Too much drama. Too much jealousy. Too much competition. Sometimes it is said jokingly, sometimes seriously, but the message is usually the same: women are each other’s worst enemies.

Looking back, I laugh a little because I genuinely thought I was making a profound observation about myself when I said I preferred male friendships. What I didn’t realize was how much of that belief had been shaped by narratives I had heard, seen, and absorbed growing up.

I don’t believe that anymore.

The older I get, the more I realize that sisterhood is one of the greatest gifts available to women. There is something powerful about being surrounded by people who understand your experiences without needing a detailed explanation. The ability to call someone and say, “Today was hard,” and have them immediately understand the weight behind those words. The comfort of being seen. The relief of not carrying everything alone.

A romantic partner can love you deeply, but there are certain experiences another woman understands instinctively. Maybe it comes from shared vulnerability. Maybe it comes from moving through the world with similar pressures and expectations. Whatever the reason, there are conversations I have had with women that left me feeling understood in a way that is difficult to describe.

And it is not just a feeling. Research consistently shows that strong female friendships improve emotional wellbeing, reduce stress, and contribute significantly to happiness. Some studies have even suggested that close friendships can be just as important to overall wellbeing as romantic relationships. When I think about my own life, that does not surprise me at all.

Interestingly, research on sibling relationships often shows that sister-to-sister bonds are among the strongest predictors of emotional support and wellbeing throughout life. Not everyone has a biological sister, but I love the idea that we can create our own. We can build relationships that become family, women who know our stories, celebrate our wins, and hold our hands through difficult seasons.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful examples of sisterhood I have seen comes from the older women in Nigeria. Many of them may never have read a psychology journal or listened to a podcast about emotional intelligence, but somehow they figured out something important long before the rest of us started giving it fancy names.

They form women’s groups. Community groups. Savings circles. Support networks. They have funny names like Unique Sisters, Shining Sisters, and countless others that make you smile. Forget the names for a second and look at what is actually happening.

These women are building community.

They celebrate together. Contribute money together. Raise children together. Support one another through weddings, illnesses, losses, and difficult seasons. They host events. They check in. They show up. They create belonging.

Sometimes I think those women understood something we are only just rediscovering.

We need each other.

Of course, female friendships are not perfect. There is drama sometimes. There are misunderstandings. Feelings get hurt. But honestly, which human relationship does not come with some level of drama?

Families have conflict. Romantic relationships have conflict. Friendships have conflict.

Being imperfect is not unique to women.

I also think women should give each other the same grace we often give romantic partners and male friends. We are quick to forgive a boyfriend for being imperfect, but one misunderstanding with another woman and the friendship is written off completely.

One friendship I still regret losing is J.

We became friends in university, and looking back now, she genuinely wanted that friendship. The problem wasn’t her. It was me.

I was the talkative one. The oversharer. The person who processed life out loud.

J was different. She was quieter. More reserved. She listened more than she spoke.

At the time, I interpreted that as distance. I felt like I was always sharing while she wasn’t giving me the same thing in return.

What I didn’t realize was that people show up differently.

Not everybody processes emotions the same way.

Not everybody communicates the way I do.

I was expecting friendship to look like me.

Instead of taking time to understand her personality, I slowly pulled away.

I still remember her asking me one day why I had become distant.

I didn’t have a good answer then.

Today, I would answer differently.

I simply didn’t understand her.

Years later, I called her to apologize.

That conversation stayed with me because it taught me something important: meaningful friendships require the same patience, understanding, and communication we expect in our romantic relationships.

If a friendship matters to you, fight for it.

Learn people.

Give them grace.

Talk through misunderstandings.

Don’t walk away at the first sign of difficulty.

Of course, not every woman will become your friend, and not every friendship will work. That is normal. But when you find your people, nurture those relationships. Be patient. Be intentional. Invest in them.

Today, I am deeply grateful for the women in my life who show up consistently. The women who check in after a difficult week. The women who celebrate my wins without making them about themselves. The women who tell me the truth when I need to hear it. The women who show up when life feels uncertain.

When I was moving countries and trying to figure out my next chapter, one of my closest friends, Cornrows, quietly gave me a significant amount of money to help me through the transition.

To this day, I still think about that gesture.

Not because of the money itself, but because of what it represented.

Trust.

Generosity.

Belief.

Someone looking at me and saying, without words:

“I’ve got you.”

And honestly, that is what sisterhood feels like.

Female friendships have healed parts of me I didn’t even know needed healing.

Some of the purest love I have experienced has come from other women. Not romantic love. Just genuine care. Support. Understanding. Presence.

The kind of love that says:

“I’ve got you.”

So if you are someone who struggles with female friendships, I understand. I used to be that girl too.

But if you find your people, hold on to them.

Be intentional.

Put in effort.

Show up.

Nurture the relationship.

Because not everybody is lucky enough to have biological sisters.

Sometimes the sisters we need are the ones we choose.

And trust me, fine girl—

it pays to be a girls’ girl.

— Scarfs 🤍

There are so many things people say that we just accept as truth because everybody says it. Things we hear so often that we never stop to question where they came from or why they even make sense.

Especially as women.

Who made these rules exactly?

And who decided this is just “how life works”?

One myth I really want us to talk about is this one:

“Good girl no dey pay” — a Nigerian saying built around the idea that doing everything “right” as a woman does not always guarantee the outcomes society promises you.

I think this saying mostly comes from the idea that women who are more “liberal,” especially sexually, or women who don’t follow certain traditional expectations, somehow seem to get the best things in life.

And people look at that and conclude:

“See? Good girl no dey pay.”

Permit me to say this respectfully… that is rubbish.

First of all, what exactly is a “good girl”? And who exactly is not a good girl?

Because if being a “good girl” simply means choosing to do or not do certain things based on your values, your boundaries, and what sits right with your conscience, then why are we conditioned to believe life automatically owes you a reward for that?

Like there is some sort of cause-and-effect rule book for womanhood.

That if you behave a certain way, you will get the “good husband.”
If you act right, life will somehow go exactly according to plan.

I remember speaking to someone once, and she was telling me about this young, most sought-after pastor in their church who got married to a woman that, according to her own definition, was “not the most Christian girl.”

The way she said it… with her nose slightly high.

Like:

“What happened to all the Christian girls in church?”

Ever since then, I’ve been side-eyeing her small.

Because why do we think life works like a reward system?

Like if you tick all the “good girl” boxes, life now owes you certain outcomes.

And when life doesn’t happen that way, we then create these funny statements like:

“Good girl no dey pay.”

Some people take shortcuts, and it works for them. Some people do everything “right” and still struggle. Good things happen to people we may consider “bad,” and bad things happen to people we may consider “good.”

That’s just life.

But every decision comes with something attached to it. So at the end of the day, make choices you can actually live with.

Choices that let you sleep peacefully at night.

Choices that sit well with your conscience.

And honestly, I don’t even fully identify with the whole “good girl” or “bad girl” thing because human beings are far more complicated than that.

People are nuanced.

Sometimes we make decisions based on our values. Sometimes we make decisions from pain, weakness, loneliness, curiosity, desire, pressure, or even survival.

I have made decisions I regret.
And I have made decisions I’m proud of.

That’s life, too.

But I genuinely want to know—what really makes someone a “bad girl”?

Whether you identify as the “good girl” or the “bad girl,” life will still happen to you.

Love will find some people.
Heartbreak will find others.
Some people will win.
Some people will lose.

And I think this is where the saying becomes dangerous.

Because if you are someone secretly thinking your life isn’t moving as smoothly because you chose certain values or refused to compromise in certain ways, I really don’t want you to think that way.

Please don’t start abandoning yourself because you think other people are “winning” differently.

I believe everybody has their own path. Sometimes things move fast, and sometimes they are painfully slow. But making decisions that align with who you are will always be worth something.

So no…
I don’t believe life is as simple as “good girl” or “bad girl.”

I just think women are far more nuanced than the myths we were taught.

So fine girl, whatever you do, don’t lose yourself trying to prove a myth right or wrong.

— Scarfs

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Scarves: What does the bond between you and your child feel like?

Cornrows: It’s instinctive. I don’t even have to try. It came so naturally, and while I know I’ll have to do the work to nurture it as she grows, I am grateful for what we have right now. She literally starts dancing and cheesing so hard the moment she sees me after we’ve been apart for a while and it never gets old.

Scarves: What usually comes to mind when you look at her?

Cornrows: Awe, mostly. I’m still in some kind of disbelief that I somehow managed to bring a whole human being into this world. And then, almost in the same breath, the anxiety creeps in, because I am very aware of the gift and the weight of parenting her. Of protecting her. Of being her first impression of the world.

Scarves: What qualities or values do you hope she takes from you?

Cornrows: I hope she takes my sense of community, that intentionality about pouring into the people around her. I hope she takes my stubbornness too (and honestly, I think she already has it). That strong-willed thing of going after what she wants. And on a lighter note, I really hope she loves reading as much as I do.

Scarves: And what’s something you hope she doesn’t inherit from you?

Cornrows: I hope she is more vocal than I am about what she wants and doesn’t want. Firmer in her values. I hope she doesn’t shrink or second-guess herself the way I sometimes still catch myself doing.

Scarves: What are you most intentional about in her upbringing?

Cornrows: I am intentional about a lot of things, but if I had to name the central theme, it is this: I want her to always know there is an abundance of love at home. I want to raise a daughter who is kind to others, but not at the detriment of her own well-being. A daughter who is value-driven, who advocates for herself and for others, and who never, ever forgets that she can always come home, no matter what. I want to be my baby’s safe space- end of story!

Scarves: What’s one thing your mum used to do that you complained about, but now you catch yourself doing with your daughter?

Cornrows: The herbs! I was so reluctant in the beginning, very cautious about giving her anything that wasn’t prescribed by her doctor. But over time, I’ve relaxed, because thanks to technology, I can easily read up on what each herb does, the science behind it, the efficacy. And they actually work. I’ll never miss a doctor’s appointment, and I’ll never replace a prescription with a home remedy, but it has been a blessing to have access to these things. The clearest example? I abandoned the very expensive baby lotion for plain shea butter and coconut oil. The difference on her skin was immediate.

Scarves: Do you feel like your partner is truly hands-on in raising your child?

Cornrows: Yes, and that has made motherhood so much more enjoyable for me. Not carrying the emotional, mental, and physical load alone has changed the entire journey. The best way I can put it is this: I can be gone for a couple of days without leaving a long list of instructions, and I am confident that our child will be well taken care of and safe. He’s not going to call anybody for backup.

Scarves: Do you think women naturally end up doing more in raising children, no matter how supportive the partner is?

Cornrows: Yes, especially in the early years. And I’m specifically talking about the physical realities of pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding. These are things the average woman simply cannot outsource. But beyond those? There is more than enough work to share in raising a child. If willing, the other partner will never run out of ways to show up and be an active parent. Never.

Scarves: What part of motherhood do you think people don’t talk about enough?

Cornrows: Honestly? Everything. But if I have to pick one, it’s the effect of pregnancy and childbearing on women, especially African women. It is understudied and underreported. We need more resources for women to take care of themselves postpartum, and we need a real conversation about how the people around them should be taking care of them after birth. The maternal mortality rate on the continent tells you everything you need to know about how much work is still ahead of us.

Scarves: How has becoming a mother changed you as a woman?

Cornrows: Motherhood turned me from a talker into a doer. It made me more conscious of my purpose, and of why I have to actively build my life around that purpose and around my values. I can’t just keep thinking about the things I want anymore. I have to do something about them. Ultimately, something shifted in me. I want my daughter to be inspired by the woman I am becoming. Not because I’m her mother, but because of who I am.

Editor’s Note

To every mother reading this: the ones still mid-feed, the ones whose babies are now adults, the ones whose road to motherhood took longer than they planned, and the ones doing the work of mothering in ways that don’t always have a name. We see you. Happy Mother’s Day, in whatever week or month you need to hear it.

If this conversation moved you, send it to the women in your life. And if you have your own story to tell, our DMs stay open. Cornrows & Scarves is, after all, the room we built for us.

Till next time, Scarves & Cornrows 🤍

They say experience is the best teacher. Some people go further and say the experiences of others. I’ll raise the bar entirely and say the experiences of fictional characters should be among your greatest teachers, and I will not be taking questions.

Baby girl, reading fiction, especially African literature, will shift something in you that you did not even know needed moving.

I remember reading Purple Hibiscus for the first time. It felt maddening that a character like Eugene could exist. But as I got older, I realized that life is, more often than not, stranger than fiction. What has stayed with me as an adult who has returned to that book multiple times is the difference in how women show up in the face of difficulty. Without giving too much away, the way Beatrice and Aunty Ifeoma each carry what life throws at them is a reminder that women are not a monolith. We are allowed to be as layered, as complicated, as fully human as anyone else.

I know a lot of people complain that African literature feels like trauma dumping, too triggering, too heavy. But I think we need to sit with that discomfort and ask ourselves why it hits so close. These stories matter precisely because they do.

Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo will walk you through infertility, mental health, and the kind of love that quietly breaks you from the inside. She is a woman doing her best inside circumstances that were never kind to her, and you will find yourself empathizing with her whether you want to or not.

Maame is a gift for the immigrant first daughter who is slowly, painfully learning to put herself first.

And then there is The Sex Lives of African Women by Nana Darkoa Sekyiamah, and the woman they call Nura. Nura is a Kenyan woman who converted to Islam in her late thirties, fell in love on a Muslim dating app, and at forty-two packed up her entire life to move to Senegal as a third wife. Before you form an opinion, I want you to sit with that. Because Nura’s story is really about what happens when a woman makes a choice, and then has to live inside all the consequences of that choice with her eyes wide open. No victim, no villain. Just a woman, fully herself, in a situation that is as complicated as she is.

In a world where it is becoming harder and harder to build genuine connections and safe communities as women, fiction, especially books written by women, offers us something precious. A place to see ourselves. To recognize patterns that need to be broken. To stretch our empathy (for ourselves). Because here is what I truly believe: if you can extend grace and understanding to a fictional woman, if you can root for her, grieve with her, rage on her behalf, then just maybe you will find it a little easier to do the same for yourself and the women around you.

And reading African literature that centers women, no matter how difficult, has a way of pulling you out of your own bubble. It reminds you that there is still so much work to be done to make this world kinder for women everywhere, and that we all have a part to play, no matter how small.

So to any young woman or girl reading this: never let anyone shame you for loving “make-believe”. The world needs more fiction now more than ever, especially the kind that makes room for our experiences.

Pick up a fiction book by an African woman today, baby girl. You can find recommendations on our IG page. And tell us, who is your favourite female author? Drop her name in the comments.

I really want to gently remove the idea that you have to keep performing for an audience you were never even created for. And before you think I’m preaching—please, I’m guilty too. You too. All of us.

From when we were small girls, we were taught in quiet ways to perform. Not always directly, but you could feel it. Speak like this. Don’t be too loud. Don’t be too forward. Be likable. Be desirable. Be “good.” Most of the time, it was so that we could be picked.

Picked as the good girl. Picked as the wife. Picked as the cool girl. Picked as the favorite. Picked as the one that is “not too much.”

But let me ask you something—who are you when nobody is watching? What do you actually believe in? What kind of life do you really want for yourself, not the one that gets applause?

Because performing is not always obvious. It doesn’t mean you don’t have values or boundaries. It just means that somewhere along the way, you started editing yourself. Softening certain parts, shrinking others, amplifying the ones that make you easier to accept.

And the truth is, this performance doesn’t end.

It shows up in school—how you talk, how you behave, how you present yourself.

It follows you to work—suddenly you are asking yourself if you are too loud, too bossy, or if you should be softer, calmer, nicer. Even the way you dress can start to feel strategic.

Then in relationships, it becomes even more subtle. What does he want? How should you look? How should you behave?

Let me gist you.

I met this guy I was really attracted to, and as we spoke, he started describing the kind of woman he wanted. A housewife. A stay-at-home mum. Someone who would be available for him at any time.

Now, let’s be honest—being a stay-at-home mum is not small work. It is real work, and it deserves respect.

But then he says maybe she can just stay at home, write a book, paint… the way he said it, it sounded like those are just small things to pass the time, not real work.

And I’m there thinking—wait, since when did writing and painting stop being actual professions?

Then he even made a comment about ambition. About women working in corporate, building careers, and how that puts them in their “masculine energy.” I just had to laugh, because what does that even mean? Is thinking for yourself and wanting more for your life now a problem?

Everything he was saying might work for him, but it didn’t sit right with me.

Because me, I want to build things. I want to create solutions. I want to do work that impacts people on different levels.

But what really caught my attention was not even what he said—it was my reaction.

I caught myself trying to adjust.

I started thinking, “Maybe I can do all of this from home,” “Maybe it can still work.” Not because that was what I truly wanted, but because a part of me was trying to fit into a version of a woman he would accept.

And that’s how the performance continues.

Another small example. I once posted a picture, and you could see my hand with a ring on my wedding finger. It honestly didn’t mean anything to me.

One of my male friends saw it and asked if I was married. I said no, and he laughed and said, “I was wondering… who will marry a feminist?”

He said it like a joke, but you know when something is said as a joke but there is truth inside it.

I laughed too, but I had to say it—people marry feminists.

Still, that moment stays with you. Because in subtle ways, you’re reminded that there is a version of you that is more acceptable. Less opinionated. Less strong. Less… you.

And it’s not even just about women who want to get married. It’s in friendships, in family expectations, in workspaces, even in how we present ourselves to the world.

And these moments happen all the time. Small, quiet situations where you start to question yourself, adjust yourself, perform a little, just to fit into what is easier for people to accept.

So I keep asking myself, should we just accept it? Should we own the performance and play the game well?

Or what happens if we stop?

Will we still be chosen? Or is it only the girls who perform that get picked?

I don’t have all the answers. But I know this—I don’t want a life where I have to audition to be loved or accepted.

And I don’t think you want that either.

So maybe this is where we start.

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A few weeks ago, the 98th Oscar ceremony happened, and the moment that stopped me in my tracks was the cinematography award. For the first time in all of Oscar history, it was won by a woman — Autumn Durald Arkapaw — for the absolute madness she pulled off with Sinners.

It's still mindblowing that we are counting so many 'firsts' for women in 2026. We've come far, yes, but we still have a long way to go.

Her Speech and why it matters

She gave such a beautiful speech, the kind that makes your heart swell. But what stood out to me most was when she spoke about and credited the people (women especially) she had to meet and see growing up, to believe that where she ended up was even possible for her. You can watch the full speech here and let it inspire you to create.

And that’s where I’m going with this. Little girls, and even grown women, need representation. They need people with the resources and the will to believe in them, and to invest in their growth. Women are more than capable. We just need more room, more power, and watch what we will do. I mean, look around. Look at what we’re already doing with the little we’ve been given.

For me, her speech landed somewhere very personal. I became a mum not too long ago, and something shifted in me the moment my daughter arrived. I became more intentional about how I live, what I pursue, what I let myself want. Because she is watching. And I want her to look at my life and see proof of what is possible for her.

So when Autumn stood on that stage and her son was right there in the room watching his mum be celebrated at the highest level, it felt like the kind of validation I did not have the words for in the moment. A reminder that you can be a mother and still be in full pursuit of your craft. That the two do not cancel each other out. That our children are not just watching us sacrifice — they can watch us win.

I’ll leave you with this today:

You are not doing a woman a favour by investing in her or advocating for her. You are contributing to a better world.

We are happy to meet you, and honestly, you should be happy to meet us too because you are stuck with us for life. Do not worry, we are just here to make your life better, fine girl.

Hi, let me introduce myself. I am Scarves, not my real name, but Scarves to you.

Naija babe. I love everything beautiful, money, soft life, soft girl energy, but do not get it twisted, I am also a goal getter, ambitious, serious about my work, financial independence, and building a life I am proud of. I support women, rights, and wrongs… but okay, let us slow down on the wrongs a little.

I enjoy art, fashion, and fine dining. You will most likely catch me dressed nicely, having a solo dinner, or out in Lagos with one of my toasters, do not quote me on that, sha. Proper Lagos, babe.

I like to think I am one of the most balanced people you will meet.

I want the best for my girls. I want us to have a space that feels like ours, honest, soft, real, and empowering.

And that is exactly why we are here.

And I am Cornrows — you should be getting the drift of our name by now.

I love good banter, sitcoms, African literature, and female friendships deeply. I am usually a serious babe; I believe your goals should never be an afterthought. But I also believe in chasing the whimsical and living a full life, because if there is anything life has taught me, it is that the journey is just as important as the destination.

When it comes to women, I gravitate toward people and things that center us. While this will be a safe space for women, be ready for some hard, uncomfortable, but necessary conversations — because I truly believe that having honest, empathetic conversations as girls makes all the difference.

We are genuinely excited to get started, and to document stories we hope generations of women to come will find valuable, relatable, and deeply their own.