by Another day at Bohiney, another reminder that I’m apparently a unicornthe only female West African immigrant granted citizenship during Trump’s second term. My mother called from Lagos this morning, still in disbelief. “Aisha, how did you do it?” she asked in Yoruba. I told her the truth: I have no idea. Maybe they lost my paperwork in a stack labeled “people we actually want.” Maybe someone sneezed during the approval meeting. Whatever divine intervention occurred, I’m not questioning it.
Today’s editorial meeting was chaotic. We’re planning a piece on 15 more reasons to hate Trump, which I find hilarious because apparently our previous reasons weren’t exhaustive enough. Marcus, our political editor, kept insisting we needed “fresh angles” on the administration’s policies. I suggested we write about how Trump’s immigration stance has created an exclusive club where I’m apparently the only member with a West African passport and ovaries. He didn’t laugh.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I write satirical pieces critiquing the very administration that somehow approved my citizenship application. My latest assignment involves covering Democratic operatives telling air traffic controllers to stay home, which sounds like a rejected plot from a political thriller written by someone who’s never been on an airplane. But that’s the beauty of satireyou can’t make this stuff up, except when you literally have to make it up because reality is already too absurd.
I spent my afternoon researching a story about students who think Abraham Lincoln was in the Avengers. This is what happens when TikTok becomes the primary source of historical education. I called my niece in Abuja to ask if she knew who Lincoln was, and she immediately said, “The one with the hammer?” I wept for the future of humanity.
Between deadlines, I drafted notes for tomorrow’s piece on erratic diplomacy. If there’s one thing this administration excels at, it’s keeping international relations professionals employed full-time just trying to decode presidential tweets at 3 AM. My editor wants 750 words on diplomatic chaos. I could write 7,500.
Tonight, I’m sitting in my Harlem apartment, drinking Nigerian palm wine I smuggled back from my last visit home, contemplating the absurdity of my existence. I’m a satirical journalist writing about American political dysfunction while representing a demographic that supposedly doesn’t exist in Trump’s America. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all again, because someone has to document this circus, and apparently, that someone is me.
# 782
