Wednesday, January 6, 2021



(INFJ means introverted, intuitive, feeling, and judging. It is one of the 16 personality types identified by the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI).)

A poem by ChidiJ.

INFJ traits be killin' me!

Calculating, re-calculating

Planning, re-planning.

It has to be perfect. 

But no one, as we know, is actually perfect.

I know this oh too well.

'Cuz these INFJ traits be killin' me!


Rare, they say I am.

Deep, way too deep to be real.

My reality always a step behind,

Catches up, but not fast enough to the world around me.


Always an outcast, 

Foreign even amongst my own kinsmen.

Finding my way to loneliness and to pure bliss,

My unfortunate paradise in peace awaits.


So mysterious. 

Oh if they only knew

The thoughts that cross this crown of mine.

Too wild at times not to sound like a screw last night came loose.

Visions of tomorrow already lay bare at my mind's doorstep.

The future is but a thought away.

Prophesy sista!


There really is nothing wrong with me.

I, who loves so deeply,

But love I'll always dread.

How I hated to have had those silly crushes in my teens and on.

The pain of loving so completely was predictably unbearable.

Clear insights of young love's frangibility, 

Unkindly and always crushed my girlish fantasies.

Depriving me of innocent moments of pleasure much needed.


So rich and so poor.

The longing to love so strong,

Yet the need for aloneness even stronger.

Like a human chimera, I am two in one.

For I am me and there's another me too.


The blessing and the curse.

The gift and the punishment.

The joy and the pain.

The love and the hate.

The future in the present.

The two faced coin.


I pity you as much as I admire you.

Your rare beauty can be ugly and ravaging.

INFJ, my dearest INFJ.

You are here to stay, please don't go.

Your insight refreshes the soul.

And your unapologetic love heals the land.

So, keep your head up.

Push your chest out.

Stand tall, unwavering.

We wouldn't have you any other way.

For such is life and its rare gifts.

Therefore I must

Rock on!

Photo by Jonas Mats from Pexels

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

Love Story

Love Story

A poem by ChidiJ.

Do you?

I do!

Fast forward 10 years later…

Do you?

I do... believe in prenups.


Photo by Avonne Stalling from Pexels

Thursday, December 17, 2020

41. Happy Birthday To Me!

 41, Happy Birthday to me!

A Poem by ChidiJ

She is 41 years old today.

Do the math...

1292976000 seconds.

21549600 minutes.

359160 hours.

14965 days.

491.999 months.

41 calendar years.

But what can she show for it?


Except for the Love that she has for her family, her friends, our humanity, and the world.


Except for the drive to create the change that can save a girl, a boy, a nation.


Ashes to Ashes. Dust to dust.

For she is here but for a short while.

So all she really needs to show for 41 is


But there is so much in between the nothings.

At 41, she is neither too naive nor too old to effect change.

41 is a good age.

Happy Birthday to me.


Tuesday, July 14, 2020

More Equal Than Others

More Equal Than Others

A poem by ChidiJ

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others -

George Orwell.

When she is born, there is sincere jubilation. 

But a secret wish that this newborn baby should have been a boy lingers beneath the surface.

Her value is already determined, already inferior.

If she had older sisters, then their value would plummet even more with her birth.

Why is there no male child? They would now ask openly. 

The message here is clear - there is no worth placed on the female child.

From birth, she is groomed to neither succeed her parents nor their wealth. 

No, she has no future here. She is groomed to be sent away. 

Already, her name lays waste, not to be engraved on the family stone; 

why bother, she does not belong here. 

Privileged Intel is withheld, inheritance too. 

Why bother, this girl does not need property, 

she is just a transient member in her "father's house".

And when she is "of age", she is sold to the highest bidder, 

exchanged for cowries and a cow that will never match her true worth.

Alas, her name, her only identity, her only sacred possession, is stripped from her. 

Belonging now to her new owner, she must take on his identity.

This is the last step to fully reprogram her for her new assignment,

her new post in her “husband's house”. 

She will never be allowed to own herself.  

And her children, not bearing her father’s name,

may not be considered as full fledged grandchildren in her "father’s house".

My name is Chidinma Jenny Chikezie, formally Iroezi.

I was born into the female body. 

I did not choose to be, I was never given a choice. 

I was taught to eat, bathe, read, like every other child, I suppose.

It always seemed like my audience was surprised by my success at seemingly mundane tasks. 

But, why so surprised?

Women have been triumphing alongside men since the beginning of time.

The Bible says we are all created in the image of God.

When did the female creation get reassigned to be less equal?

There needs to be:

A culture shift. 

A re-education. 

A righting.


Equal rights for women, like charity, begins at home.

Value your daughters at home and the world outside will.

Photo by JJ Jordan from Pexels

Sunday, June 28, 2020



A Poem by ChidiJ

I shan't worry about saving my career right now.

I shan't worry about saving the world right now. 

What's so wrong with just focusing on me and my children right now?

What's so wrong with focusing on what I actually want for me for a change?

I choose to be the mother I've always dreamed I could be.

My children didn't ask to be born. 

I am obligated to raise them well,

Not pass them off to someone else while I pursue "not looking defeated" by maxing out my potential, or getting a bigger house, or making more money. 

But why do I judge me so harshly for taking a stand for something that I believe in?

I choose Me.

Not the "usual", 

Not the "norm", 

Not the unspoken "tradition". 

I choose Me

Like so many others who have walked the road less travelled.

I choose Me,

To listen to my heart,

To do what's right for Me.

I choose to offer my children first-hand love;

Not, second-hand love.

For like smoke, it can kill the unsuspecting childhood.

I choose to hear my children. 

They have so much to tell, so much insight,

If I would just take that moment to listen;

To listen now while they are still tender enough to want my undivided attention. 

For soon they will leave the nest and take their hearts and voices with them.

Then the moment would have past.

A mother's ultimate regret.

I choose to live life to the fullest.

I choose My life,

Not yours, 

Not your well meaning expectations.

Yes, I choose my life on my own terms.

I choose to be fearless to be Me!

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone.

I choose to be Me today.


Treat yourself!

photo by @august-de-richelieu

Sunday, May 3, 2020

Memoirs of a Mother Dearest

Memoirs of a Mother Dearest

A Poem By ChidiJ

I was 29 years old when Joshua blessed me with his existence.
I fell in love with my son.
Hopelessly, I was smitten by indescribable love.
As I gazed at him for hours unending,
I smiled, amazed by this miracle of new life.
How could I have been so blessed to have birthed such a miracle?
A blank slate, a new existence,
Evolving daily into a human personality.
He was beautiful.

Victoria, another miracle, she came with a message too.
From birth, she loved no one but me.
And she did not hesitate to shout it loud.
For the first three months of her life,
She did not allow grandmother or aunty to hold her.
She wanted me, only mother dearest or there was hell to pay.

Ezra, my joy and my peace,
Laughter incarnate.
He always sneaks a wink or a nod, 
A kiss or a playful lick.
He always returns to home base.

[Returning to home base is the end result 
of the love that pulls children of all ages back
to mother dearest no matter how far they go.]

It always takes me by surprise whenever they call me ‘mommy’.
I am just a girl.
So these three children, are they lost?
One would think that after 9 months of pregnancy,
Followed by another nine months of intense bottle and breastfeeding, 
And three more years of diaper changes and Eskimo kisses,
With precious years of bonding and growing,
After all that time,
One would think that naturally a mother would accept her title and just be mommy.

But don’t forget that for almost thirty years
This “mommy” lived her life differently.
I always loved kids and I surrounded myself with lots of them.
But I still feel like that care free girl.
The one with the flowers embroidered on her favorite jeans.
The girl who wore spaghetti strap tops all year round.
The girl who loves boba in her milk tea.
The girl who fantasized about the one true love with every Celine Dion love song.
I still feel like just a girl.

But they keep calling me mommy.
They follow me around.
They demand my attention.
They demand their dinner.
They are unapologetically bound to me.

How did this happen?
When did this happen?
And where do we go from here?

So, for the first time in almost 11 years,
I have accepted that to Joshua, Victoria, and Ezra,
I am mommy, mother dearest.

To all you girls who find yourselves in this situation,
Scared, confused, or in utter disbelief,
Just breathe.
It's not a dream that you need to awaken from.
You are the pillar.
The lifeline.
The favorite.
The home base.
You are mommy.
Without you, we are forever lost.
You are always loved and cherished,
Mother dearest.

Happy Mothers Day

Photo of us taken Summer 2019