Yours, Furiously
On anger and the healing power of a well-curated rage mix
How are you?
I just got back to Lagos after spending time with my parents in Benin City and siblings in Port Harcourt. I’m a little out of whack with my routine, amongst other things, but I will always make that trade for time with family. It felt grounding to catch up and spend real quality time together.
After the final group-shot hustle, hugs, and goodbyes, once I finally had time to myself, I started to feel this heaviness and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
Was it my delayed post-divorce cry finally playing catch-up?
Maybe it was seeing my parents older and more vulnerable, and leaving them alone in that big house?
Perhaps it was spending time with my brother and his children, and the grief of watching them grow into these beautiful, hard-working humans without their mother, who passed away three years ago after a fibroid-related surgery?
Or was it simply the sadness of returning home after so much time with family?
What is it? Tell me! (I asked myself in King Julien’s voice, after every deep sigh)
When I finally got home, I hauled my suitcase upstairs, slammed the door, pulled off my clothes, and ran straight into the shower. I went in headfirst and got my 4C, wig-ready, center-parted cornrows wet, with no plans to loosen or wash them. I stood in the cold shower, silent, motionless, headbowed, and let the water run until I was tired of it.
Right after that, I fell on my bed and lay star-shaped, eyes fixed on the ceiling, with the only noise around coming from my neighbourhood outside. It was about 4 pm, very unlike me. My room is mostly used for its basic functions: sleep, getting dressed, recovery, and all. I don’t just loiter there in the middle of the day. So that on its own felt like a sign that I needed more time to process.
But the answer never came, just some small sobs I almost had to force.
And after a while, I slept.
You can trust a good eight-plus hours of sleep to bring some clarity with the morning dew. Because the next day, I woke up and my sadness had morphed into anger.
I was full of rage.
I went to the gym to help move this feeling out of my body. Good effort, but not really.
I returned home and proceeded to listen to my Rage Mix all. day. long. in chronological order. repeat. shuffle. I played it in every way. My neighbours must be tired of overhearing me sing, Get Back! ‘Cause I ain’t got nothing to lose, and I’m having a bad day, don’t make me take it out on you. Sorry to them.
I rapped along to the mix. Screamed along. danced along. Acted out entire scenes.
It’s been six days. This rage sitting inside me is taking its sweet time to run its course.
And fair enough, tbh.
When I let my mind wander, it goes back to the divorce and how unjust it felt. You know I hate injustice with a passion. I think about how long the proceedings dragged on. The disregard. The disrespect. The smear campaigns and the many narratives spun to save face. the lieeesssss!
All of that happening at once, combined with the exhaustion and pain I felt, was overwhelming. It felt like I was being gather-brushed1, hit from all angles at once, and I didn’t really know how to fight back, defend myself, or ignore it. It’s also not my style to be silent or look the other way, so the tension of experiencing everything without knowing how to respond left me frozen for a while.
To top it all off, my ex-husband—whose missed court appearance, repeated paperwork delays, and courtroom disruption caused over a year of holdup in the proceedings—argued against refunding my car, the one I owned before meeting him, which he sold without my consent during our separation. He also went on to have a traditional wedding months before the divorce was final.
Am I a joke?
When I feel this kind of anger, I know exactly who has arrived: My teenage self.
That was the time in my life when I felt most powerless. I saw and experienced so much abuse of power and watched the perpetrators face little to no consequence. A slap on the wrist at best. From institutions to individuals, especially growing up in War Zone Warri2. Nine times out of ten, I could only dream of scenarios where I fought back. I used to think I wasn’t brave enough, but no child should have had to go through all that.
To feel this level of powerlessness as an adult—it’s volcanic. And teenage me just gets it. She gets me.
So what have we been doing with all this anger?
We’ve been taking it one day at a time.
We’ve kept the Rage Mix on repeat. One place we thoroughly enjoy listening to it is in Lagos traffic, with the volume almost on max, while screaming along. The car is the only place we get to scream at full lung capacity. Heartbreaker is one of our go-tos. Very therapeutic. Definitely caught a few stinkeyes from passersby.
We’ve been going to the gym consistently, lifting heavier than expected. Our body is sore, but we lowkey like the feeling. It reminds us that growth comes with a bit of pain sometimes.
At home, we’ve been journaling, meditating, doing creative work, talking to family and close friends on the phone. Blasting music. Dancing. Stretching. Reading. And just going with the flow. The other day, we randomly attempted a cartwheel and somehow “perfectly” nailed it. We also randomly ordered a chocolate goodness naked Swiss Meringue buttercream cake, Just Because, and have been cutting little slices from it every day. Anywhere bele face o3.
We heard a neighbourhood protest and went to document it. It felt really good to help amplify the Korope bus drivers’ voices as they called out another form of injustice.
Spending time in nature is a must. After our walk by the ocean yesterday, we found a rock to sit on, barefoot, and talked to the ocean. A form of prayer, if you ask us.
Writing weekly letters has become a beautiful processing container. There’s a lot of relief that comes from watching our feelings metabolize while writing in real time.
I still have the urrrrrrrrge to seek vengeance.
Thankfully, there’s a deeper urge to release everything I’ve had to suppress over the years, without letting it mould me into something that I’m not.
I hate when my restraint is mistaken for weakness, but I don’t want this rage to consume me. I’ve worked hard to build a beautiful life full of curiosity, adventure, and community. Full of people I love, who love me back, and know exactly how to steady me when I start to tip.
Whenever anger comes for me like this—whether it’s rising from injustice, heartbreak, old wounds, the news cycle, work, disrespect, or that suffocating feeling of having no control—and I don’t quite know where to put it, my favourite first stop will always be music.
My Rage Mix validates my anger and gives my body and voice somewhere to place it. I feel powerful yelling “I hate you so much right now” with Kelis. I get excited dancing and singing “bring out koboko and wake up the Bastard” with the Three Wise Men, and I fully enjoy turning into a gangster when Heat by 50 Cent comes on.
Whenever anger comes for you, you’re welcome to take mine for a spin. But I must warn you: there’s plentyyyyyyyy of profanity, violence, and heat in there. I still recommend it, sha.
Yours furiously,
Osẹ̀
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Gather-brushed is a Nigerian Pidgin slang that means to be beaten up by multiple people at once
Warri, in Nigeria’s Delta State, has a long history of inter-ethnic conflict, militancy, and political violence, particularly through the 1990s and early 2000s, which shaped the environment many of us grew up in.
Anywhere belle face is Nigerian Pidgin for going wherever pleasure, comfort, or immediate satisfaction calls, following what the body or mood desires in the moment.
Men are so terribly predictable that if it wasn't annoying it'll be hilarious. Be that as it may, soon all of this will be just a blip in the past.
I haven't even read it yet, but “Your Furiously” is already taking me out. Wish I could use that in emails lol.