Elizabeth's Daughter: In Words and Pictures is a volume of essays and photos from my memoir about a would-be nun in post-war Nigeria who became my mother, and my experiences as her daughter, an artist, and Nigerian-American woman. 

Proceeds from sales of the essay collection will be used toward a broader project incorporating video and photography. Consider making a donation today to help me realize this vision. 

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(Pictured here, L-R: My mother Elizabeth and her friend Philomena as Girl Guides)

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i write under a pen name because it frees me to be a little more honest than i would be if i were writing under my real name. i am never really so worried about what so-and-so might think about me writing such-and-such because, in a sense, it isn't my real self writing, but someone else. i can just say what i think and not have to deal with any personal consequences.

in actuality, i am far more reserved in reality than i am on this blog. but in using a pen name, i can assume a persona closer to the person i aspire to be. it's at once emboldening and freeing and i recommend everybody use a fake name at least once in your life (when i order takeout, they know me as maya or celeste or zara -- none of which is my real name ;).

now, specifically why i write under 'alligator legs' is because it is (was?) the title of the novel i'm working on. it also was a nickname i had as a kid with a case of childhood eczema that was the itchiest, scaliest thing you've ever seen.

not only does using this name now allow me to reclaim those memories, but also to claim myself as a writer/artist rewriting and recreating herself. i think when the novel comes out, and my films etc, i will also use a pen name. my real name and all it signifies just seems too outdated for this new self i am fashioning.

(shout out to abagond, whom i just discovered online today, for inspiring this blog post! for more info on my novel, visit: Why Alligator Legs?)

That's me at about ten-years-old drinking coconut water on my uncle's lawn in Uyo, Nigeria. Those were my favorite pair of glasses, blue and pink plastic hexagons, that I picked every two years, religiously, when my mom took me to the eye doctor.

There are far stranger stories from my childhood, all of which led me to start penning a memoir, Alligator Legs. It's a nickname my big sisters gave me as a kid when I scratched my legs so much that they grew bumpy from childhood eczema. I was sickly, in and out of the hospital with asthma attacks, and generally uncomfortable in my own skin.

Today, I am a Stanford University biology graduate completing MFA studies at NYU graduate film. I am a professional writer and editor, most recently awarded a 2009 Hedgebrook Writers Residency.

First conceived in 2003, Alligator Legs is a novel based upon my experiences growing up the youngest of four daughters of Nigerian immigrants living in that difficult space between Africa and America.

The protagonist of Alligator Legs is a little girl from a working class immigrant family trying to fit in somewhere that will never be home -- negotiating what it means to be a girl or boy, pretty or ugly, rich or poor, in often hostile territory.

I plan to finish a draft of Alligator Legs by May 2009 and begin working on a screenplay adaptation of the novel. This blog is a place to share my thoughts and explore ideas emerging from my writing and filmmaking. I also hope to gain insight from other writer/filmmakers engaged in similar endeavors.

Drop me a line and say hello or post a comment. I love hearing from my blog readers especially while killing time at work. ;)

I took a two week writer's workshop at City College taught by Marie-Elena John (pictured above center, in red), author of the critically acclaimed novel Unburnable. The workshop was advertised as a how-to course on writing your first novel, the reason I signed up.

Marie-Elena is a sweet, passionate, sincere woman plagued by Antigua time -- the equivalent of African time multiplied by three, sprinkled with a bit of salt, and served with local rum. I came the first couple of days, ditched the next day, came another couple days, ditched the next day, and showed up religiously the last four days to finish out the two-week workshop.

During the workshop, I sat in class critiquing the hell out of other people's work as if I knew something about writing. (Maybe the evidence supports that I do, but I have an incredible amount of self doubt around its validity.) This voice kept coming out of me when I spoke that made everybody stop to listen. It was a voice I hadn't heard from myself before. It was bold and certain, did not harbor the same apprehensions as I do personally. It sounded a bit like my blog, far bolder than I am in person.

So. Although I was kicking and screaming the whole time, the single greatest gift the workshop gave me was an opportunity to confront my self-doubt, even if only to sit with it like a friend for a couple of weeks. I haven't a clue what I'm doing, really, when I say that I am writing. It is amorphous, a bit cliche, and terrifying when I have to sit inside my insecurity for three or four hours a day and actually write.

At any rate, and likely because of my fear (which only exists to be vanquished), I have officially turned in my leave of absence papers to NYU and put film on hold. I need to finish this book so I can find my voice, grab hold of it, and run full tilt into the future. I leave school only to give myself a year to revel in my insecurity and, hopefully, learn to trust it.

I can't help but think that it is my own voice I am trying to become. Not thinner or prettier, taller or more fashionable, but rather bold, certain, and unapologetic.

I'm writing my memoirs. Yes, it has been brought to my attention that, at only 25-years-old, what could I possibly have to say about life at this point? Well, many things.

I am a first-generation American-born Naija. That distinction has always been a source of ire toward my parents for robbing me of my birthright. You see, even if you were born in NG and whisked away at four-months-old to the US, somehow you're more authentic than those of us born here. All I know is, my favorite foods are plantain & eggs and coconut rice. I can cook edikangikong, okra soup, afang soup, atama soup, pepper soup, egusi soup, fufu, jollof rice, coconut rice, akara, chin chin, and beans. I can prepare plantain at least ten different ways. Count to ten, say hello, goodbye, I'm sorry, come and eat, sit down, where are you going, what is your name, nice to meet you, how much does it cost, i love you. I know when someone's talking about me and usually, if I put enough effort into listening, I know what they're saying.

My mom used to take my sisters and me back "home," as we call it, every two years. We knew our cousins in Nigeria better than we knew the ones in the States. When my mom started a dance troupe, she took us to the village to learn traditional Ibibio dance properly. Between the palm wine and goat pepper soup, I always knew I was different from an American, but something else distinguished me from a black American too. As many identity issues as it created for me growing up -- other kids said I had snakes in my hair when I wore it threaded -- it has helped me find my place as an adult: what I am here to do, to write my life.

So I am writing a book about growing up as an African in America. It is a not-so-easy task -- not just the writing part, which takes a lot out of me emotionally, but selling the idea. I have submitted the proposal to a dozen agents and keep opening up rejection letters that say, "You're a wonderful writer, but I would have a difficult time getting this story published."

And I am not used to rejection. Usually, if I apply a certain amount of energy in a particular direction, whatever I want comes to me. But with this book, I have put out more energy than ever before without receiving much validation.

I wanted to blog a summer reading list today, but I realized that what I really want to do is publish and read my own book. I tend to believe that more women my age want to tell their stories, but I have to ask, where are they? I look to contemporary African authors like Ama Ata Aidoo, Meri Nana-Ama Danquah, and Chimamanda Adichie for inspiration, but there should be so many more.

We have to tell our own stories or they die with us. And I look forward to the day when our stories, no longer at the margins, are placed squarely at the center of history. So these agents and editors see my memoir as something essential -- a must- instead of a cannot-publish -- that tells the very central story of Africans in America, of America itself.