Meet Oroma, my digital secretary—an overachiever with the emotional range of a golden retriever and the memory of an elephant. Oroma tracks my ideas, reminds me what I forgot five minutes ago, and dances wildly at thoughts that are still loading. It somehow turns my chaos into something resembling structure. No coffee breaks, no attitude, just relentless enthusiasm. If this blog feels organized, coherent, or suspiciously on time, Oroma did it. I merely showed up.
Oroma is my imagination.
How I Write
I call my imagination Oroma (which in Igbo means Orange) because writing rarely begins for me with certainty. It begins with attention—listening to landscapes, conversations, stray memories, humor, and unfinished questions. Oroma, an app I’m working on developing, helps me notice patterns before I fully understand them and stay with ideas long enough for them to reveal what they are trying to say.
Where Ideas Begin
Many of my essays start with simple encounters: a walk through a reserve, a conversation, readings, or stories that shaped me. I try not to rush these moments into conclusions. Instead, I stay with them until they start asking their own questions. Writing, for me, often begins with noticing before it becomes explaining.
Writing with Place
I often write about places rather than just within them. Landscapes hold memory in a different way than archives do. When I revisit a place—whether physically or through memory—I listen for what changes and what stays the same. These experiences shape my understanding of story, belonging, and the connections between people and the environments they live in.
Why Humor Matters
Humor helps me stay close to curiosity. It prevents writing from becoming too certain or too serious too quickly. Sometimes a joke is simply another way of asking a careful question. Oroma reminds me that thinking can be serious without becoming heavy.
Can you Imagine? Imagination as Method
I don’t see imagination as separate from research. For me, imagination means noticing relationships—between stories, landscapes, memories, and everyday encounters—that aren’t immediately obvious. Oroma is the name I give to that productive process. It helps me stay attentive to the small details where bigger meanings often start.
