It’s Detty December in Accra, and the heat here hits different. It laughs at sunscreen, sunglasses, and even the strongest setting spray as portable fan batteries quickly drain under its menacing rays. You can hear the “mchewwws” from a mile away as yet another victim scowls after realizing they forgot their power bank back at the hotel.

Thousands of us have descended onto the one and only Obi’s House, squeezing past an endless stream of partiers looking for tonight to be the night. Phone numbers between potential new hookups aren’t the only things being exchanged; sweat and body heat pass through the crowd like we’re all one single organism. Under the sweltering night sky, our makeup and cologne slides away, but we sway our hips, pop endless bottles, and throw our hands up to the same sun in enjoyment.

I needed air.

The entire Black diaspora across the UK, US, Caribbean, and Africa was here, and there was zero space for me to breathe.

“Samsung phone, did someone see a Samsung phone? Please, if you have this phone bring it to the DJ booth,” a voice croaked over the DJ’s speaker in the distance.

I was with my girls Shelley, Chioma, and Lana, and though we didn’t have a table when we entered the party, each of us had a unique superpower to acquire one if we wanted to. Chioma likes to yap and could talk us in or out of anything. Shelley was the flirty one who threw a mean doe-eye look that got the guys to melt every time. Lana was the social butterfly who somehow knew any and everyone no matter where in the world we were, and I was the finesse queen: the impossible will always be possible with me.

Luckily, Lana’s best-friend’s-ex-boyfriend’s-homeboy was there and had a plug. And just like that, our stomping grounds for the night were secured.

The table was packed. It looked like it was meant to hold 10, maybe 12 people, but there were at least 20 people stuffed in, with some sitting on each other’s laps and some standing on the makeshift plastic benches with pillows they tried to pass off as a couch.

And even though there were already at least 10 girls, some of the guys embarked on solo missions to gather even more babes. The rest of the men stayed back, guarding the bottles as tightly as entry past the angels at Heaven’s gate; getting access meant an initial face card check (will it decline or not?) and then profusely confessing your sins. It was a whole ordeal. Shelley was seated at the table while knees knocked and asses gyrated on top of her head when she emerged from the trenches.

“Wanna do a lap? It’s hot as fuck and smells like balls and ass crack in there.”

“Say less.”

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In girl culture, doing “a lap” refers to taking a cute stroll around the party you’re at to see who’s who in the building. If you’re stationed in one spot, how are you going to connect with the cuties on the other side of the room? How is this outfit going to be seen by more than the 10 people in your immediate area? How are you going to successfully get invited to a table that you didn’t pay for?

Doing a lap is where the magic happens. It’s where going out to the club goes from “it was whatever” to “biiiiitch, you had to be there!” Being alert, open, and ready to detour to other sections is key for a successful lap.

We squeezed our way through from the back to the front of Front/Back. It was packed wall-to wall with nothing saving us but the slight breeze filtering in from Accra’s night sky, thanks to the lack of a roof over the club. Beads of sweat began to make their journey south from the nape of my neck to the crevice of my back. I tried to cutely dab the sweat forming above my upper lip to preserve my makeup, but I quickly found myself melting. As we moved through the thick crowds, I made a pit stop at every fan I saw along the way for a sweet sense of short-lived relief. I slyly snuck myself into the back of someone’s section who had a dedicated fan—closing my eyes as it blew a cool breeze gently on my face and through my cornrows, buying me a few minutes of time before more members of the sweat army began their journey.

Shelley grabbed my hand as we continued on. We offered “Sorrys” and “Excuse mes” as we pushed our way through the party. The DJ made yet another announcement of a lost phone, this time an iPhone 15. Someone is getting lucky in here, I thought. We were almost to the front when Shelley saw someone she knew. Too drunk to remember to introduce me, I turned back around to scope the scene when a tall man with skin the color of black coffee came into focus.

He leaned over. “You look like you could use a drink!” he shouted into my ear over the bass thumping between us. I didn’t think twice. He brought me to his table, introduced me to his homies, then poured me a shot of Don Julio 1942. Niggas are so predictably obsessed with this shit, I thought to myself as I raised my cup to cheers with him and his friends. I took the shot down and grabbed some cranberry juice to chase. He began to dance in my direction. I smiled that pitying “No” smile you flash guys you’re not interested in. Thankfully, he quickly redirected.

I looked back, and Shelley was still all up in what seemed like the best conversation to ever happen. She was deeply involved, so I had to find another way to entertain myself. As I turned back, I saw the flyest group of girls next to me. Ginger hair, patterned mesh tops, chunky shoes, and ombre shades—my type of girls.

“I love your fit!” I said to one of them as “Joha” by Asake started pulsating from the speakers. That was all I needed to gain entry into their clique. We started hitting the footwork, and I told them that the guy at the table next to us has a bottle and they should join. No, it wasn’t my bottle, but two things I knew to be true about African men: they love pretty women and looking like the Oga, the big baller, the boss. We danced and vibed for a bit longer, until Shelley finally came back.

“Ugh, that was my ex, so annoying,” she said as she adjusted her small Telfar bag. “Let’s go back to the table.”

“Wait, what? He’s here?” I said, confused. The way Ghana somehow brings out the African vortex of past and present lovers should be studied. There could be some Nigerian dude you dated for three months in Oakland that you managed to avoid for a year back home, but somehow you’d run into him in the motherland during Detty December. As we began to make our way back, another man made direct eye contact with me and smiled.

“Hey! Pretty girl, come party with us!” he yelled.

I looked at Shelley and she looked at me with the “Duh, bitch” look. “OK!” I said, and we rerouted to their table. At this point, I was acting like a bird. Flying my little wings from table to table, thirsty for nectar. While the guys at our original table were being stingy, here I was easily able to procure multiple drinks just by walking past the testosterone-filled tables of thirsty men looking for estrogen wrapped in a pretty package. It’s Detty December, why not?

After we clinked glasses and did our shot duties, Shelley and I began to bounce when all of a sudden I noticed something. My bag felt noticeably lighter. I looked down, and the front of my purse was flapping open.

@badboy_soco

SOCO on Instagram: "This feeling 😂😂"

You know when you feel like something is wrong, but you don’t want to believe it, so you’re externally calm but internally about to jump out the window? That was me. I just knew, but I opened my bag anyway to confirm. As I rummaged through the 2” x 6” opening, like there was even a place for something to hide in that tiny Marc Jacobs wallet bag, my heart sank: my phone was gone.

The music all of a sudden felt too loud, my view went cross, and everyone was having a little too much fun. I felt a pounding in my chest as the bass from the speakers tried to assassinate the little sense I had left—suffering was a deep crimson red feeling making its way through my body and I felt myself beginning to bask in it.

Shelley pulled my hand, which brought me back to my senses. I acted like nothing happened. I didn’t want it to be real that I had lost my phone or, even worse, allowed it to be stolen?? in GHANA!?? It felt like everyone was looking at me with drunken, low eyelids held up only by their disdain as if they all knew what just happened to me, and I looked right back—they were all officially suspects.

As we approached the table—Shelly, chipper; me, sullen—it was time to confess. Our other friends Chioma and Lana were pumping their portable fans in the air to DJ Obi’s Afrobeats mix, the music was sending the crowd into another realm. It was the designated time in the night when the party turned up to its max level. Ascension was imminent; meanwhile, I was about to commit a horrible, murderous act…

I was going to kill the vibe.

Thank you for reading part one; stay tuned for pt.2!

I wrote an article awhile back about the high-maintenance travel Olympics. In it, I lamented about how forcing ourselves to look our 5-star best at all times on vacation holds us back from being fully present in a new place. However, it me. As I wrote in the essay, I, too, feel the pressure at times to show up in new cities I’ve never been to as an idealized version of myself.

Which brings me to today’s confession: I’ve never worn my natural hair while travelling abroad (*ducks from tomato*).

I’ve been part of the “natural hair community” since 2008, a community that seems to be in shambles at the moment, but I digress. In trying to learn how to care for my hair, I stumbled on the now defunct Black Hair Media (BHM) forums. Those ladies were like mad scientists—concocting recipes and slanging around terms I had never heard of, like “the greenhouse method,” “kitchentician,” and “TWA.” A whole new world opened up before me, and these anonymous women became like my big internet sisters, lighting the way and encouraging me to go natural way before it was cool.

Despite being an OG to the game, I haven’t brought myself to wear my natural hair while out in these foreign streets.

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On a practical level, my wash day routine is a multi-hour process with quite a few products involved. The thought of trying my luck with the beauty haters at TSA and then lugging everything to some foreign country sounds like work I don’t want to do. And if I hop into a body of water, whether one full of chlorine or seaweed or fish poop, guess what’s going to be waiting for me back at the hotel: wash day. Sue me if I don’t want to wash my hair on vacation—aren’t we here to relax?

But hiding behind the door of practicality was another door. A tiny one hiding insecurity behind it. A small part of me still held onto the belief that to be my most “poppin” self on vacation—full of IG-worthy photos, swimming as free as Ariel, and, when I was single, trying to catch the eyes of hot strangers—I needed to be in a fresh, “done” hairstyle. Those damn respectability politics.

As a Black woman traveling in the world in the early 2000s, being constantly perceived due to the shade of my skin was already enough reason to want to show up as “put together” as possible. I just wanted to blend in, an impossible task. I’ll wear my natural hair to work, on a date, or to speak on stages, but while travelling? That’s a leap I wasn’t quite ready to make.

Until my recent trip to Mexico City.

I had just gotten my first-ever silk press, and I planned to rock a fresh set of kinky straight clip-ins I got earlier in the year from Nigeria.

But on day one of the trip, we were scheduled to go to the Tolantongo pools (a must-do!). I’d been lusting over the idea of being my most fake-influencer-baddie-self in these pools since I learned about them in 2021 while living in Mexico. It’s an excursion in itself to get there (about a four-hour drive from the city center), but I recommend going with the tour guides that pick you up around 4 AM so you can beat the crowds. An experience like this in the States would cost hundreds of dollars and be reserved solely for the wealthy. But here in Mexico, locals of all kinds get to enjoy the vibes.

I’ll just wrap my hair in a scarf and not put my head in, or so I thought. Here I was thinking we were just going to be bougie and hop in and out of these lush hot springs from the waist down and have a relaxing day. But next thing I know, our tour guide was ringing the alarm, “VAMONOS!! DO YOU KNOW YOU HAVE 30 MINS?!”

Apparently there was a second part of the tour—the waterfall. When the influencers posted those pools on IG, not one of them mentioned a waterfall, let alone waterfalls, plural! Mind you, this wasn’t a waterfall that we were just going to look at from afar, no. We had to swim under said waterfall into a cave, squeeze through a tiny, jagged, rock-lined crevice, and cross over seaweed-covered boulders while attempting not to slip, all while dodging bats that were hanging out at the top of the cave like the hyenas in The Lion King and trying not to get our edges snatched. And for a little extra razzle dazzle, the strong water currents were pushing us against our will, making sure there was no turning back.

We emerged from our Indiana Jones underwater adventure fully drenched and gasping for air. I lightly tapped my head to feel what I already knew. Damn. Waterfall: 1, Silk press: 0. My kinks started talking shit, "Girl, cute try.” The silk press lasted less than 12 hours, and we had 5 more days of the trip to go.

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I now had to do an entire wash day and get all the clay, seaweed, and whatever else the Mayan ancestors infused in that water out of my curls.

The hotel just happened to have organic conditioner and shampoo, and luckily there was a Walmart across the street. I went and grabbed what looked like a leave-in conditioner (“acondicionador??”) and went to work. The plan was to wash my hair, blow it out, and then flat iron it so I could proceed with my clip-in dreams.

But after what felt like forever to blow it out, it was time to head to dinner. Time was up—I had to improvise. I have to just rock it natural. I called an audible and started prepping my tried and true: a braid-out. I used mousse to set it, then blow-dried it a bit more so they could set faster, and voila! I took them out, and my hair was literally the most light, refreshed, and airy it’s ever been!

That braid-out had juju in it because in under an hour it completely unshackled me from years of avoidance. For the rest of the trip, I stopped worrying about what my hair was doing. I let her flow, and I flowed with her. From day to day, she flourished, going from full of volume and bouncy to more shrunken and tightly coiled to my head. I embraced all of it. She told me to stop worrying about her because she’s doing her own thing regardless. I honored her wishes.

From half-up, half-down fros to pigtails to a TWA in all its shrunken glory—the setback forced me to be creative and just own it.

Black hair is more than personal. And while I thought I loved my natural hair, that love can’t just exist within the comfort of home—the proverbial vacuum. If I don’t feel free to show up in unfamiliar places exactly as I am, then how deep does that love really go? Even though I claimed to reject beauty standards, in practice, I was still playing by their rules.

But thanks to a waterfall in Mexico, not anymore.

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It’s been a minute since I saw the trailer for a show and wanted to watch it immediately. But as a 30+ Black woman in America with a penchant for fashion, wanderlust, and self-actualization, I was SAT in anticipation for Solo Travelling with Tracee Ellis Ross, on Roku. I watched the series twice. First, when my two best friends pulled up to frolic with me in LA for a few days, we were yapping too much in between scenes to really catch what was going on. So, a week later on a flight back from Atlanta, I hopped on the in-flight WiFi and queued it up again. And this time, I let myself get carried away by Tracee’s extravagance, whimsy, and introspection.

The way Tracee travels made me confront the way I solo travel. Not for better or for worse, but in a 3-episode discovery where I realized there are many different ways to solo travel—even if there is just one you on the trip. As she traveled around to Mexico, Morocco, and Spain, I felt like we were seeing the real Tracee, and the intimate moments we were privy to in her travel journey felt sacred.

On Doing What Feels Good For You

Tracee is deeply in tune with herself. When she's sick, she rests, no matter how many days of the trip flow by. When offered a drink from a nearby table of travelers, knowing she's already had one glass, she declines, honoring where her current level of sobriety is at. When the vibes aren't right in her Marrakech room, she packs everything up and moves to the next room, even if it takes hours.

She radically honors what she feels on a soul level, no matter what. Watching her do this over and over in both subtle and loud ways made me think of my own way of traveling.

I've been invited to dine, hang, and party with people while out in the world—other solo travelers, groups who liked my vibe, couples, and men. And even though accepting these invitations would take me away from the plans I had, I’m open to the opportunity for connection (and a good plot twist, with discernment), so I usually accept if it makes sense. I don't think either approach is right or wrong; when I solo travel, I'm usually looking for those spontaneous moments of connection. For Tracee, her solo travels are geared towards "doing nothing,” as she put it—she wants to unplug, reset, eat good food, shop, and maybe swim in a pool or two.

And that's the beauty—it's all up to YOU. For me, rainy days like the ones Tracee experienced while she was in Mexico would have put a damper on my plans. But for Tracee, it meant more time to relax and sneak some work in.

While taking a sound bath in Mexico, Tracee asks, "As a culture, why are we afraid to just be?" I think it's a balance. For many of us regular folk, if we're spending money on a trip, we want to fully immerse ourselves. But there's so much freedom in not having anything planned, going with the flow, and being present in your body, especially when you're regularly stressed back home. It was a joy to watch her relish in her own company and be completely satisfied with the trip, despite not being able to do much. "The best part about solo travel is that you can change your plans last minute and no one gets upset," she says. Whether it’s me bailing on a lazy beach day to hop on the back of someone’s motorcycle, or Tracee getting dolled up to go out only to decide she’d rather just stay in after all.

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On Packing & Prioritizing Joy

When Tracee packs, she makes sure she accommodates joy, beauty, and disaster. Doing this makes her feel like she's her best self. But, ma’am, 8 suitcases for a 3-day trip?! As a proud member of the #CarryOnOnly club, the way Tracee packs is both beautifully chaotic and yet somehow extremely intentional. She packs weeks beforehand with three goals in mind: be prepared, be meticulously thoughtful about her needs, and pack her pretty clothes. She likes to have multiple options for every scenario that could possibly happen, like, you know, running into the love of your life or just not vibing with a certain fit anymore. She revels in bringing too much. And I revel in watching someone pack in a way that is the antithesis to my packing system.

While I used to overpack with the same thought in mind, I've saved myself the baggage fees by packing more strategically instead of packing everything I could possibly ever think of. I bring multiple tops that can all pair with 2-3 skirts and pants—that alone creates 20+ outfit options. I bring travel-size everything, and ain’t no way I’m bringing my entire haircare routine. But hey, the girl is rolling Rimowas down the runway, so baggage fees are the least of her worries.

On Exploring The World As Tracee, A Single Black Woman

"So much of what solo travelling is is not waiting for something to happen...in order to walk towards my life. In order to be in my life. In order to experience my life." —Tracee Ellis Ross

There were two clips from the show that kept spiraling up online: 1) The boldfaced lie that she only brought 2 pairs of underwear (ahem *points to 8 suitcases*) and washes them in the sink (like a normal ass person would on vacay), and 2) her pushing back on Oprah calling her the “poster child for being single.” Tracee doesn’t claim it—she wants to be known for living in her own skin. The benefits of not having children or relationships have allowed her to explore things of "her own humanity, like joy, exuberance, and grief," she says, but she is no poster child.

One of my favorite parts of the show was Tracee’s little moments of reflection on unlovability, on not being a mother, and on loneliness.

After a night out to dinner in Morocco, she comes back to her hotel and reflects on feeling lonely that evening—another common solo travel quirk. "I wonder if loneliness and sadness are the same thing," she muses. “They feel so similar in my body. Happiness and joy feel very distinct...happiness is slicker, bouncier. Joy is wider, deeper." She pauses as she reminisces on past relationships that didn't work out, and in a different reality, they might have been on the trip with her.

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For Tracee, and for many Black women, being “alone” is a mark, a scarlet letter you invisibly wear until someone appears in your life to free you from it. But when you realize you’re “responsible for your own happiness,” and no relationship can fill up a cup that has sat empty while in your possession, it really doesn’t matter what your relationship status is. Happiness is something you have to create for yourself over and over throughout your time here on this Earth. In ’s essay on the show, she writes, “We waste so much life thinking we have to have something—a partner, a title, a certain bank balance—before we can experience what makes us happy…But we’re worthy of joy and love that we didn’t have to work for.”

I've written extensively about how traveling made me realize I’m worthy of love. The duality of it all is that yes, it’s possible to be happily single and to want love & companionship. You can honor where you are currently and look forward to your relationship goals. But pausing your life while waiting for partnership will leave you on the sidelines living vicariously through others as time continues to pass on by.

Final Thoughts

While I ultimately loved the show, and I’m excited to hear that it was renewed for Season 2, the show felt more about Tracee Ellis Ross, who happens to be solo travelling. This may have been due to a few things, such as safety, timing, celebrity, weather, etc. Tracee didn't engage much with the cities she visited beyond the people at her hotels and at the restaurants. While she mentioned that she considered safety for Black women when choosing her destinations, she was traveling with a camera crew, and I’m assuming bodyguards and assistants, and not to mention wealth that gives her access to the most exclusive experiences. She can’t quite accurately show what it’s like for a regular Black woman to travel solo, but it didn’t make it any less enjoyable to watch. This is how Tracee travels, and it was a pleasure to experience. I hope in the second season we’ll see more of her exploring the cities and getting into local culture.

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Favorite moments:

• Ordering room service French fries while taking down her box braids was peak Black girl.

• Dancing for like 10 minutes while eating bread and olive oil in Spain while the shop owner just stood there randomly.

• Her casually calling her mom when she's sick when she knows damn well that her mom is THE DIANA ROSS! It's so endearing to see her still find comfort in calling her mom to check on her.

• She constantly dropped things at restaurants and as a fellow klutz, I felt seen lol

• Her personalized pillows in Mexico had her initials embroidered with the beautiful sayings “amate a ti mismo primero,” love yourself first, and “viaja lejos encuentrate,” travel far and find yourself.

• When she said it can't just be Joan of Arc and cat ladies, there has to be an in-between, my soul smiled. That's my whole Carefree mission!

Did you watch the show? Are you excited for season 2? Are you a chronic overpacker like Tracee? Let’s chat in the comments!

Welcome to Random Observations, a monthly column on the random shit I notice in random places around the world. Very serious and completely unserious. Since ESSENCE Fest is around the corner, and I’ve now been to NOLA twice, here are my random, unprovoked thoughts. You can also watch along on TikTok.

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1. Yes, everyone will call you “baby,” pronounced byehbeeee. Revel in it, and embrace it. You will feel internally loved from the soul out, even if it’s just the homeless man across the street shouting it at you. Live, laugh, love it.

2. If you’re going during the summer like I did, it's going to be hot as hell, and the humidity will feel like wading through a thick, invisible heat fog.

3. The most beautiful Black art is created here. I’ve discovered new artists like Brandon ‘BMike’ Odums, the founder of Studio Be (a must visit in NOLA!)

   

4. I don't understand the hype about po'boys. I finally tried one, and…meh? Am I missing something?

5. NOLA has its own nutrient chart, and vegetables aren't on it. That might be fortunate or unfortunate for you. If you do happen to catch sight of something green on your plate, it will most likely be buttered, sautéed, and deep-fried. Yes, and.

6. The food here is delicious, but you will die in approximately 7 days if you make the mistake of eating it every day (which I did, and I’m happy to report I’m still here).

7. The southern hospitality is real. This is my first genuine trip to the South, and as I had heard, everyone is super friendly. They’ll go out of their way to accommodate you without you even asking.

8. Go to Bourbon Street once. Just to say you saw it. From there, AVOID, AVOID, AVOID.

9. The Café du Monde locations at both City Park and Riverwalk Mall have better beignets than the original one in the French Quarter. Definitely check out the French Quarter location for the vibes and powdered sugar-caked floors, but the other two locations have the tastier donuts.

10. When eating said beignets, you will get powdered sugar everywhere. It's unavoidable; just go with it and indulge in the fried holiness of one of the greatest pastry creations to ever be made.

    

11. If you try to navigate back to a really pretty house you saw, you might as well just keep walking because another one is right ahead.

12. There are virtually no African people (first-generation African immigrants) to be seen. Then I wonder why we decided to plant our feet mostly in Georgia and Texas as opposed to Louisiana (I’m sure I can Google this). Most people I met were African-American with Southern roots.

13. Everyone has a big ol' cornbread-fed booty. There will be 5-star ass everywhere; don’t panic. Just admire from afar.

14. Black love is the norm here, and I love to see it! So many beautiful Black couples and families roaming around.

15. I saw approximately four white people in the span of five days.

16. When you venture out to places like the 9th Ward, you’ll see that the effects of Katrina are still very visible. I got a chance to visit a friend’s grandmother at her house over there, and it felt similar to navigating my parents’s village back in Nigeria. The people’s spirits are still high, and they have immense pride in where they come from.

17. I went to a Master P concert and wow, he is a horrible performer. But he's the unofficial mayor of New Orleans, so I can’t be mad that I’m getting to see the legend live.

18. Dragos is the spot to be seen. While you'll most likely run into a D-list celebrity or two, that’ll hardly make up for the cost of your food and it taking literal hours to be made and delivered to your table.

    

19. Black and white southern families have a lot of cultural similarities in terms of how they were raised. Humor between groups is very similar, and jokes are easily shared. This was jarring AF to my West Coast brain, it could not compute.

20. I asked for Ritz cracker sandwiches on my flight home and was handed Ritz cracker sandwiches filled with cream cheese. Do people outside of the South know about these??

21. ESSENCE Fest is a beautiful Black homecoming that you have to attend at least once in your life! I’ll be back next year!

Have you been to New Orleans? What are some random things you’ve noticed? Let’s chat in the comments!

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Check out at 11am

I need hotels to stand on business. When the clock strikes 11, I need them to be at the door ready to take me away. Because if not, I’ll see y’all when I see y’all. The number of times I’ve still been in the room while 11 came and went and…no one died. Not on purpose, I just be late. But how legit can that time be if, in just one 20-second phone call, you can change the checkout time to 1 or 2 pm? My record is 4pm, a personal best. We’ll see how long my luck lasts, but for now, I’m not falling for it.

Window seat elitism

I used to be a die-hard window seat warrior. Like phone pressed against the window during takeoff and controlling the amount of light that streams through the row type shit. But babyyy, as I’ve gotten older, ya girl gotta stretch her feet out and get a few bathroom breaks. I truly hate being the person who taps someone awake in the middle of an 11-hour flight to use the restroom. It’s also claustrophobic, especially when seated next to an unholy manspreader. Aisle seat me, please.

Miami for a girls’ trip

When the girls’ trip makes it out the group chat (yay!), but it’s to Miami (nooo), go ahead and remove me. A girls’ trip to Miami is good for nothing but coming back with either one less friend, a few less zeros in your account, and/or one new scammer boyfriend. Pick your poison.

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Packing the itinerary to “make the most of the trip”

I have friends who transform into drill sergeants over an itinerary. We will get whipped if we don’t somehow make it from one end of the city to the other in the 30 minutes allotted in the schedule. I get it. We need to see, do, and eat all the things. But I’ve personally unsubscribed. While I love a well-planned, exciting trip schedule, I’m on PTO and you not about to burn me out like my boss. Normalize leaving space for rest and freedom to explore. Death won’t come knocking if we don’t hit all fifty-leven things on the spreadsheet.

Europe as the ultimate travel destination

After seeing a few European cities, they really do start to blur together. I say that as someone who has cities in both France and Greece in her top 10. I also say that as someone who used to live there, but I digress. My thing is, every year? Every.single.time you grab your passport, you’re going to Europe? Asia is right there! Africa is right there too! I love some good architecture, and a bustling, walkable promenade with stylish European people making smoking look cool again just like the next person, but let’s move on. They’re over us anyways—let’s give them a break from our insufferable selves.

Airline loyalty

Have you ever met someone who is a Delta Airlines loyalist? Good luck escaping that conversation. There is no other topic more interesting to them. They don’t know it, but deep down, they’re trapped. They can’t book the same flight time as you because it has to be on Delta. They pay more money because Delta might upgrade their seat from Basic Basic Main to Basic Main. Meanwhile, when that guy said, "These hoes ain’t loyal,” he was talking about me. Because I’m promiscuous, I can snatch the best ticket at the best price at the best time and still rake it up in credit card points if I choose.

Having to show up to a trip with everything did

Free yourselves, y’all.

It’s “ghetto” to travel in a bonnet

There is no greater feeling than stepping off the plane knowing your hair isn’t giving James Brown emerging from the depths of Hades.

One minute, you’re dozing off as the flight hits cruise control, and the next minute, you’re jarred awake as the plane hits the tarmac, and your perfect twist-out is flat as a wall in the back. Or the lace frontal a stylist just spent hours melting onto your forehead is starting to lift after stewing in fart air for hours. Listen, do yourself a favor and you’ll get to show up to your destination with your hair still flawless. WEAR. THE. BONNET.

You shouldn’t travel solo while in a relationship

There’s a certain type of person who believes that the prettiest places in the world should be reserved for baecations. And then they proceed to remain single and never get to see those pretty places. The same goes for those in relationships. Yes, traveling with your romantic partner is a beautiful shared experience, but that doesn’t mean all your travels have to be reserved for when you can both go. Sometimes you’re going to be able to go and they won’t; something will come up: work, kids, the dog. That shouldn’t stop you. You deserve to explore whether you’re partnered or not and with your partner or not.

"Travel is a luxury."

Travel is not a luxury, a privilege for sure, but not a luxury. There is an abundance of places to see, an array of cultures to experience, and an endless number of ways to make it happen. On one trip you might spend thousands of dollars to go to the Maldives and yacht across sparkly sapphire waters, while on another trip you’ll spend less than $100 to pussy pop in Vegas with your girls. It’s all relative. I’m grateful for how travel has changed me in so many blessed ways, but it’s not a luxury only a few can access. We all have the ability to see some world—whether you’re going to the other side of the city or the other side of the world. It all starts with you prioritizing travel, and creative ways to make it happen will start to appear. You don’t need thousands of dollars to go on a trip. You just need a little planning, the desire, and a readiness to just go.

Share the travel propaganda you’re not falling for in the comments!

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In 2011, I took the trip that changed me.

I was 19, studying abroad in London, and for the first time in my life, I felt seen. That experience shaped so much of who I am today—it sparked my love for travel, my courage to do unconventional things, explore the world solo, and my passion for encouraging Black women to be carefree and explore the world. Everything I’ve done since then, every major pivot in my life, in some way, anchors back to that trip.

I grew up in California in the ‘90s and early 2000s . I'm a California girl. Shout out to Katy Perry. And if you know, you know—there was always this unspoken currency placed on being light-skinned, mixed, or biracial compared to being dark-skinned and African. This may have been true in other parts of the U.S. as well, but I can only speak for California. Listen, being a dark-skinned African girl back then? We were fighting for our lives.

The bullying, the insults, the classroom lights going off and suddenly everyone’s facetiously asking, “Where did Anayo go?” —it was wild. As a sidenote, it’s crazy to see how Afrobeats and Nigerian culture are so widely celebrated now because I remember when being African was absolutely not it. And being African and dark-skinned? Chile.

I learned to retreat inward. I was shy, docile, and quiet—the eldest daughter of immigrant parents who were too busy surviving in a new country to be able to understand what their daughter was going through in a world that barely acknowledged her.

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Attention? Never had it. Being chose? Don’t know her. The girl people thought was pretty? Not me. I was a tomboy and felt really comfortable in that. I leaned into it, and looking back, I think it was a form of protection. Tomboys weren’t expected to be feminine or attractive. Tomboys don't get looked at. Tomboys are the homie. Tomboys fly under the radar. And I liked flying under the radar. Flying under the radar meant nobody was teasing you, and nobody was saying your name wrong. It meant I wasn’t the target of another cruel joke about my culture or my name. I was just, “That's that person over there.” Cool. I'll take that over being called an African booty scratcher.

I played that role so well that by the time I got to college, that's the role I quietly slipped into. I quietly slipped into my classes, quietly slipped into the dining hall—I was just there. I went to a PWI, and at that point I was entirely removed from the world of liking men and having crushes. I had already trained myself not to expect attention, so I faced my books, as Nigerian parents would say. I was there to get my degree, not to entertain the possibility of being desired.

But at the same time, there was a small part of me that was yearning for attention. Not to be the center of it, but to be seen.

I applied for a study abroad program during my junior year. Back then, it was unheard of, and frankly, weird, for a young Nigerian girl to go do this. But I was studying Italian and obsessed with Italian culture at the time. I convinced myself that one day I was going to live in Italy and live la bella vita and just eat gelato and drink wine all day (which I'll talk about in another essay because I did eventually end up doing that).

But I didn’t meet the language requirement, so instead, I ended up in London. It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I had never traveled anywhere by myself. And internationally? Girl, bye. But something inside me told me I needed to go.

Picture this: I step off the plane in London, 19 years old, in a city that feels like a more buzzy, rainier New York. Big red buses, black cabs, people zooming in every direction. It’s poppin’! And there are Black people everywhere. Africans, Caribbeans, a mix of cultures and accents that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time.

My friends and I were experiencing a lot of firsts—our first time abroad, our first time navigating a new city on our own, our first time doing things alone. If my friends didn’t want to go do something, I’d go by myself. I got invited to my first fashion show, and I also snuck into a few. I wandered through markets, museums, and ate at restaurants alone.

And then there were the men.

London's nightlife scene is crazy—Bar Rumba, Hip Hop Karaoke, Fabric. There was so much to do, and we partied until 4 am every weekend. All of a sudden, something started happening to me that had never happened to me before.

Men were looking at me. For the first time ever, men were approaching me. Not in a “hey, what’s up, bruh” type way. But as in, “You’re fine, and I want to holla at you.”

I was shook.

When you go from being completely unseen—painfully aware that you are not that girl—to suddenly being noticed everywhere you go, it’s jarring. I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t even know how to talk to these people. I was naive and awkward, and because I wasn’t used to this attention, I got into some situations I shouldn’t have been in. I even had a stalker at one point. But on the other side of that, my brain started to rewire itself.

Wait… y’all see me?

Y’all like me?

Y’all are talking to me?

It hit me: hmm, maybe I wasn’t ugly. Maybe I just grew up in a place where people didn’t appreciate dark-skinned Black girls. Maybe outside of California, I was attractive. I was seen.

For a 19-year-old girl who had never felt that way, that realization was everything.

Now, in my 30s, male validation doesn't mean much. But back then? It meant a lot. In hindsight, I understand that the validation I was getting in London was in some ways healing me. Within the comforts of my shell, I felt like I didn't deserve to be this outgoing, feminine, desirable woman. I knew what my looks came with: having a bigger nose, darker skin, and being African. I accepted it for what it was. We also didn't have the imagery we have today. There's so much representation online of being dark-skinned, African, and desirable that just wasn't available to me back then.

For the first time, I felt worthy. And it wasn’t just about men—it was about how I carried myself. I started taking myself out on solo dates. I went to concerts alone (I even saw Little Simz before she blew up). I took risks, explored the city, and lived my own life instead of shrinking into the background.

That trip planted a seed of confidence that grew with every solo adventure I took afterward.

And listen, I know the internet loves to shame people for seeking external validation. “Love yourself, sis.” “It all starts from within.” “No one can make you feel worthy but you.” It can start within, but for some of us, that outside validation of worthiness, attractiveness, humanness, of looking past my features and accepting me as just a woman, is actually the catalyst that starts us on that path of self-love and self-acceptance. Without it, it would have been a long time before I realized that I could find other ways to accept myself. Think about when you see a YouTube or TikTok video from a creator where it feels like they're speaking your story. Like they're speaking directly to you. Is that not validating? And is that not external validation?

Sometimes, external validation is what nudges you toward internal validation. Sometimes, that moment of being seen by the world is what makes you realize you deserve to be seen by yourself, too.

That’s what London did for me.

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We were countless Black people conversation catalysts deep, “Mind you!” and “Girl, ain’t no way” being vollied back and forth across the couch like an Olympic finals match of who had the most tea, when she asked if I was ready for my upcoming trip to Portugal.

"I really need to get my life together before this trip, it’s literally next week, and you know I haven’t packed,” I lamented.

“How are you going to do your hair?” Jasmine inquired.

For some reason, this felt like a threat. “Oh, I’m not sure, I might wear it natural or put in some twists. Ugh, those are going to take me forever.”

“Oh, you’re not getting your hair done?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but now that you mention it...”

“And girl, I wanna see the outfits! I know you placed your orders.”

“Wait, did I?” I contemplate as my panic intensifies.

My internal dialogue was doing hand-to-hand combat with the idea that, even though I didn’t want to do those things (they sounded like a lot of work), maybe I should—because that’s what Black girls are supposed to do when they go on vacation. We’re supposed to show up slayed to impress both the God of Heaven and the gawds of our influencer fantasies. We’re supposed to look so good that the letter ‘T’ needs to be added to the end. We’re supposed to participate in the vacation appointment Olympics and make sure that this state or country we’re blessing with our presence doesn’t catch us slipping (even though no one knows who we are, let alone our wardrobe).

Our hair must be done—goddess boho braids or wigs only, don’t let them catch you with your natural hair. Our nails must be professionally manicured with added acrylics—bonus points for designs as intricate as Cardi B’s. Eyelashes? Applied. Bad bitch outfits? Ordered. Coochie hair? Painfully waxed away for now.

It’s A LOT. It’s endless. And guess what? When you get to said vacation, you know, the place you’re supposed to relax and let loose, you become too worried about preserving said hair, nails, and outfits to even be present for it. And what do you have to show for it? Digital photos on IG for people who weren’t even there? Let’s recap: you paid thousands of dollars to be digitally perceived online for your outfits, nails, and hair by the people at home after going to a real place and exploring people who have never seen you and will literally never see you again.

Whew, I know this sounds like shade, but fear not, dear reader, because this big palm tree of shade covers me too. Surprise! I participate too! And I’m swinging in like Captain Save-A-Ho to let us all know that we don’t have to do this!

How did we get here?

We could blame the influencers (it’s always the influencers), but let’s back up a bit. There are quite a few ideologies that have taken shape online, spread like wildfire on Twitter, IG, and TikTok, and managed to converge all at the same time that have brought us to this place of required high maintenance. A place where regular degular, everyday women, with regular degular salaries that don’t stretch as far as celebrity coin, feel the need to keep up with the proverbial Joneses. Y’all look gorgeous, of course, but it’s not necessary.

Once the era of female rap girlys dominating hip-hop took flight (or got flewed out, in the great words of Yung Miami), it gave way to empowering women to feel and embody as much “bad bitch energy” as they possibly could, at all times. It’s empowering to hear Meg Thee Stallion rap about how good she looks and revel in the confidence that comes with that. When Latto said “trips y'all can't pronounce/big jets to Phuket/I'm like FUCK IT," we want to have that same energy.

Female rappers get what they want. They get the men, they get the bags, and they fly private jets to exotic locations looking TF good. As women, rarely do we get what we want unless we have pretty privilege. And thanks to female rappers (and YouTube University), we’ve learned that pretty privilege isn’t necessarily something you need to be born with—you can create it for yourself. Whether by simply wearing makeup more regularly and always having your hair done, or by more extremely, undergoing cosmetic surgery to look more like the women who seem to get what they want. You can buy it—whether by cash or credit.

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It’s commonly believed that pretty privilege brings the soft life. Because I look way too good to have to deal with any form of stress and to not be enjoying life’s luxuries, right? We see all these gorgeous influencers with their whole look always on point. Every post. And their vacation posts? Forget about it.That must be how they always get flown out by mysterious rich men. That must be why they always get a lot of likes on their posts and brand deals. Not giving way to the thought that this post was meticulously crafted, probably scheduled weeks ago, and they’re probably also currently lying on their couch looking like a potato and scrolling the feed like you. I’m just curious on how they fit all their outfits and shoes in their bags.

And one of life’s biggest perceived luxuries according to online standards? Travel. See how we got here? The perception of wealth, online posturing, female rap dominance, and the commodification of our IG-aestethic feeds result in you losing hundreds or thousands of dollars every time you decide to get on a plane. And not even on the tickets or hotel, but on your appointments.

via Instagram

Travel comes in many shapes and forms. You can spend thousands of dollars to swim in an infinity pool overlooking the beaches of Bali while your in-house chef floats your breakfast over to you, or you could try to make $100 stretch as far as possible while backpacking across Europe. While Black people tend to lean toward the former, it makes sense. According to a report by The Mandala Research Firm, only 17% of Black Americans take an international trip per year, and most travel only 100-500 miles from home. And with how things have been going in the U.S. since, well, forever, why wouldn’t Black people, and particularly Black women, who are the main drivers of total Black spending power surpassing $1.5 trillion, want the few times they get to travel to be as luxurious as possible? Black women want, no, need, a reprieve, and if we want to spend some money to look as good as possible for the trip, what’s the big deal? When you look good, you feel good, and dammit, I’m going to feel as good as possible! PTO has been accrued, my boss is on mute, and my automatic replies are activated.

I understand all of this. I just need to reiterate that it is not required. I’ve seen friends reschedule dates because their nails weren’t done, push it to the limit with making it to the airport because of delayed ASOS packages, and waste the first 2-3 days of a trip in appointments because they couldn’t get it all done beforehand. I’ve had young people ask me how I can afford to travel and lament on how it seems too luxurious for their budgets. And I’ve time and time again seen women spend more on their appointments than the actual trip. We’re going for gold every time, which I guess is what you want to do in the Olympics, but in this event, it’s okay to go for bronze; hell, it’s okay to not even make it to the podium.

I want us to be conscious of the reason we participate in certain activities. It seems harmless to participate in the appointment olympics, until we step back and realize that we’ve been conditioned by someone else’s standards to convince us that this is required. Let’s divest. Because in this economy? Babyyyy.

Some creators online have started the conversation of how expensive maintenance has become and how they plan to divest through things like doing their nails at home or using press-ons, extending their already-done hairstyles for a trip, and applying cluster lashes at home.

If you truly want to divest in a sustainable way, take some time to sit and think about how you would feel if you went on vacation with the same clothes in your closet or the slightly old braids you already have on your head. Does it make you feel dusty? Unkept? Or does it make you feel neutral? Indifferent? Maybe even relieved? If it’s the former, really sit with this and think about why. Write it down. After you think, challenge yourself to let go of ONE appointment on your next trip and then write down how it feels. Rinse and repeat until you feel content personally with how you choose to show up on your next trip.

If it feels stressful, let it go. I love seeing women realize that they don’t have to participate in the high maintenance routine if they don’t want to.

We can come as we are, enjoy a stress-free trip, and not worry about if our nails are chipped or if the ziplining helmet is going to ruin our newly glued lace front. Trust me, it is, but you’ll be just fine.

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Welcome to Random Observations, a monthly column on the random shit I notice in random places around the world. Very serious, and completely unserious. First up, my random observations of Lagos, and Nigeria in general.

1. Sales attendants don't care about what you want. What you want is a fun idea, but at the end of the day, they're going to give you what they want. Waiters tell you what food you're going to order. Shop associates will bring a random dress to you that has nothing to do with what you're looking for and suggest you buy it.

2. I tried ordering a margarita at a restaurant, and they asked if I wanted it to be veggie or alcoholic.

3. There's no "look busy" culture like in America. If there's nothing to do, then there's nothing to do. The employees pretty much stand around until something happens. This is super jarring because in America, store attendants are always busy, and you need to chase them down to get help.

4. The POS system is genius. There are random people that sit on the sides of the street who have hundreds of thousands of naira on hand. If you need cash, just transfer them the amount you want, and they’ll give you the cash. It’s like a more personable ATM.

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5. At the market, people mchew at you and call you “mommy” and “aunty” to get your attention. They know I’m not from here. Someone shouted “U.S!” to alert the others that I was indeed a foreigner.

   

6. Chaos and aggression are the main love languages. You have to yell to get what you want, and it can sometimes take 30-45 minutes to land on a price for something as simple as a t-shirt. They will make fun of you, shame you, and insult you all in one breath before you get to the right price. Once you hear the final boss phrase “last last,” that’s the final price.

7. At the fabric shop, we all fam. Everyone is crowded in looking for the right material for their various parties, weddings, and asoebi. Everyone knows the exact color they’re looking for. Lilac (not lavender), burnt orange (not rust orange)—you’re a mumu if you can’t tell the difference.

8. The customer is not always right. I witnessed a girl order a cinnamon vanilla latte at a famous coffee shop. They handed her what she said tasted like "coffee and water" and said it wasn't her drink. The associate got mad at her and insisted that was her drink. The girl said no, it wasn't. I saw it, it clearly wasn’t. The associate scoffed and took the drink back, and then her actual drink magically appeared. The associate handed it to the girl like nothing happened.

9. Crossing the street is an extreme sport. In fact, if you need to cross the street, just don't. Whatever is on the other side isn't important anyway.

10. You know how people say LA traffic is bad? So American of them—they haven't been to Lagos. Try having cars drive into you, on top of you, through you, and inside of you while someone tries to hop in the window to sell you peanuts.

11. There will never be a working seatbelt in the back right passenger seat of any rideshare car you hop into.

12. I went to a church wedding, and it wasn’t just one couple getting married. They marry as many couples at one time as possible. There are currently 6 couples getting married at one time at the church going one after the other between each segment.

13. Lagos is the only place where you’ll be at the airport with over 100 other people late to the same flight, and someone will still push you out of the way and say, "Please, I'm late to my flight!!" Well damn, me too!

14. Nigerians seem to have 6 eyes. You think you're being nice when you give one person money. Somehow 3 other people have seen you and are running towards you to also come and collect. Just don’t do it.

    

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15. That's cute that you thought you were gonna pay what Bolt, the rideshare app, said the price was when you booked. You're already on your way, and the price you’re paying is going to be double by the end of this.

16. If you're heading back to the east like me, just embrace the rapid transition into village girl status. Free breakfast before 10 and beach parties quickly transform into waiting for NEPA to bring back light so you can heat up the same rice you've been eating for the past 3 days and hand-washing your panties.

17. Short braids are out, butt length with little curls on the end are in. It's this December’s equivalent of 2022's French curl braids.

18. The shit you see on holiday cards is actually said out loud out here. “Seasons greetings” and “compliments of the season” are actual holiday pleasantries spoken between humans.

19. Air Peace at Lagos’s international terminal and Air Peace at Lagos’ domestic terminal are two different experiences. One is your bougie cousin, and the other is your rowdy ratchet cousin. Neither are your fun cousins.

20. Flight boarding and departure times are merely a suggestion; these are not actual times. Actual times are approximately 1-6 hours later than the time you thought you were leaving.

21. It feels natural to be here. It feels like I'm navigating a place that isn't new, a place where I'm supposed to be. It's refreshing. I relate to everyone here in a way that I don't relate to everyone who is Black in America. Even if they're poor here, I still relate to them. It's a weird feeling, but it's beautiful. It makes me want to cry. My parents have stretched the branches that sprung from our tree trunk to the US, but our roots remain here in Nigeria, and I feel it.

22. We visit family every day. Family visits us every day. Family lives with family. Lots of extended family everywhere, ranging from small children to older grandparents in multigenerational harmony.

23. My aunt called a nail tech to come over and do nails. He came with a backpack and that was it, all his tools were in there. As he went step by step, he'd pull out his different tools from his backpack. He only had 10 colors available, mostly consisting of reds and pinks, but coincidentally had the exact shade of electric purple that I consistently wear when I'm back home.

    

24. Nigerian scammer friends have taught me how to pick locks and open suitcases without disturbing the lock. There goes my will to lock my suitcase.

25. Nigerian men won't let you pay for anything. My mom was mad at me for coming to Lagos with only 50K and its my last night and I've only spent 5K.

26. Lagos babes are not girl’s girls. I don’t think there is anything wrong with that, but I’ve been finding it way easier to befriend the guys.

27. Nigerian men will be in your eye before you even get a chance to open them. They will be in your mouth before you even get a chance to breathe. They will be in your neck before you even get a chance to turn your head to spot them. They know no bounds and will let you know they find you attractive, beautiful, and sexy—God’s gift to this earth—with no shame. I've been hollered at in front of my mom, in front of baby cousins, at church. There is no shame.

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The last time I was in Nigeria and Ghana was in 2022. I went for my cousin’s wedding, and my entire family, both in Nigeria and abroad, descended into town to celebrate. Our family house was always full of life, food, and laughs. I was also single, and if you know anything about Detty December, then you know that 75% of it is about going out, being seen, and getting chose by Nigerian ballers. If you’re a 6 in America, you’re a 12 in Nigeria and the men will act accordingly. Suffice to say, I had a good time and rarely pulled out my card. In Ghana, I went with a friend, and we planned our trip around Afrochella (now Afrofuture), a controversial festival but one that will always have my heart because I got to see Asake for the first time. Also, having the festival to go to for two days gave us an anchor activity that we planned all of our Ghana activities around.

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This year, I went with a group of 5, but without Afrofuture as an anchor, we were there mostly to catch the vibes. The trip started off with a little wahala when it came to getting rides and service, but the girls and I hit fashion pop-ups, the famous Obi’s House, Shai Hills and the Volta river, and brought in the new year with a sermon and a song. We attended virtual church at 11pm and were in the club by 2am partying at Polo Beach Club until 9am. Now that’s what I call ✨balance✨

Lagos, Do You Know You Have 30 Minutes?

I was there for a month, which was just a liiiitle bit too long. I realized that without purpose (like a major music festival, a wedding, or a bunch of close family being around), I was planning my days on the fly. While this is usually my go-to way of traveling, in West Africa you can’t just be flitting about without purpose. You can’t just go out into the streets and be making your way downtown like Vanessa Carlton. In Accra, if you’re staying somewhere like Osu, maybe. But in Lagos? Ah. I remember one time I stopped walking near this man’s store in order to get my bearings for my next destination, and he came out and shooed me away because I was “blocking potential customers.”

Detty December has become so mainstream that I fear this past one will be one of it’s final glory years. Next year, we’re going to start seeing those videos from random people who went to Lagos solo with minimal research filming the dirt roads, the smog, and crafting “count how many times the lights go out” compilations.

I need Nigeria to understand that they only have 30 minutes. Accra has it generally figured out, as their economy is primarily driven by tourism. But Nigeria, please, abeg, you are missing out on big tourism dollars if you don’t figure out how to put small infrastructure in place. Specifically Lagos, just enough to capture and retain the people who plan to come and party next December after seeing how lit this year was. I know it’s been a whole century since that was a concept the government cared about, but with American and UK celebrities starting to fly out, and the diaspora spending millions of USD and pounds with local businesses, the least that can be done is create roadways, sidewalks, traffic lights, and public spaces that allow for the influx of tourism Nigeria is about to see.

You’re Not As Fashionable As You Think

Anyway, the biggest lessons I learned while away? One, never leave the house without a fan, and two, that cute little fashion game you thought you had, please. No one is shaking in their boots. The Lagos girlies are giving bombastic side eye. Go home and try again.

@itsreallynanaaaThe girls from London, US, Lagos and beyond showed up and showed out! #lagos #dettydecember #accra Ty @Chi for the beautiful invite

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When it comes to fashion, the ladies of Lagos are in a different category. It was so serious that after the third night of looking like a Bassica Biel, I decided that I just didn’t pack correctly and placed an emergency ASOS order that my friend had to pack in her already overstuffed luggage and bring from the US (Thanks Mo). I discovered and shopped a ton with African brands (some of my favorites are listed in my guide below), and as a former fashion editor, developed a true appreciation of the budding Lagos design scene.

The IJGB vs. Lagos Babe Debacle

IJGB? JJC? Madame Joyce? Batch C? High profile? What does it all mean?

Let me start by saying, Lagos babes are not girl’s girls. I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. But much of the diaspora were shocked to find out that *gasp* the Lagos gals weren’t eager to be nice to them.

The creator, , broke it down better than I ever could as a Johnny Just Come gal myself. And in her video she introduces this phrase that I’ve never heard before but will be using from now on: “The Tourism Gaze.” She describes the tourism gaze as what happens when tourists from western countries such as the U.S. or the U.K. go to places like Bali, Mexico, or Nigeria, and become the exotic foreigners. The locals can tell they’re not from there and may stare with piqued interest or approach them with curious amiability. It’s this gaze that the IJGB babes were expecting when entering the trenches of the Lagos nightclub scene. We’re “not from here” and therefore you should be nice to us and give us your attention. But when the currency is couch space in Emeka’s section at the club, a space that Lagos babes reserve year-round, new smiling faces from the new UK & US babes in town for just a week simply don’t move them.

I remember one night I went out clubbing with one of my male friends and his homies. He’s a Lagos baller, so of course, he managed to quickly corral a few Lagos babes into the section. I said hello, and the ladies didn’t say a word back. Fine, back to me sipping this watered-down tequila pineapple.

We all went back to his apartment for some post-club gists. We were all in the living room chatting when my friend and one of the girls disappeared into the kitchen—the open layout kitchen right behind the living room, mind you. The girl’s friend and I sat in the living room motionless, as we made sure to stare straight ahead while he and the other girl started sloppily smacking lips. We knew what was about to happen. I decided that this was the perfect time to make my second attempt at friendship. Here we are, just two girls, trapped in this awkward AF situation with the infinite potential to become besties bonded in third-wheel trauma.

I turned to her, “Are they doing what I think they’re doing?”

*Silence & a blank stare*

I laugh with a little embarrassment and tried again, “This is so awkward, right?”

*Silence, she proceeds to pull out her phone and ignore me*

I’ve heard dozens of different theories on why Lagos girls are like this, but my friend (yes, the one in the kitchen about to fully fuck this girl in front of us) explained it the most plainly: in a city where men are the prize, they see you as competition. And now, after hearing all the discourse from this Detty December, I believe it. Generous and rich Nigerian men are the backbone of what makes Lagos culturally go ‘round. I can’t tell you how many of my friends entire experiences were marked by either how many men took care of them or didn’t. We went to Accra, and one of my friends started looking at flights to go home early because the Ghana men weren’t giving the same treatment she had just experienced in Nigeria.

In any case, now that we’re all back home, the Lagos babes can resume sitting pretty on their thrones; the rest of us can start saving to do it all over again next December.

These are just highlights of some of the places I checked out and would recommend. In no way is this list remotely exhaustive, but these are a handful of my absolute favorites! For more, you can always buy a custom itinerary from me or book a 1:1 chat for help with your trip.

For tours, I didn’t get to try any in Lagos, but I recommend Sorted Chale or Cy Cy’s Travels for your Ghana adventures. Tell them Anayo sent you!

Did you participate in Detty December shenanigans? What’s your take on the IJGB vs. Lagos babe debate? Are you going next year? Let’s chat in the comments!

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