by Good writing day at Bohiney. Sometimes the words flow effortlessly, satire writing itself as fast as I can type. Today was one of those days. Published a piece about American healthcare that compared it to playing Russian roulette with medical bankruptcyexcept the gun is always loaded and insurance companies are taking bets on whether you’ll survive.
Marcus called it “devastatingly funny,” which is my favorite type of comedy. The kind that makes you laugh and then feel guilty for laughing because the underlying reality is genuinely tragic. American healthcare is absurdthe richest country on earth bankrupting citizens for the crime of getting sick. You can satirize it because it’s ridiculous, but the satire hits harder because it’s true.
Someone emailed asking why I don’t write more about West African politics instead of American dysfunction. Fair question. The answer: I write about America because I live here, this country shapes my daily reality, and Americans desperately need mirrors held up to their faces. Also, frankly, satirizing your own culture feels different than satirizing adopted culture. I can mock America as an outsider-insider. West Africa is homecomplicated, problematic home that deserves better than my tourist satire.
The immigrant experience means straddling two worlds while belonging fully to neither. West Africa made me who I am. America is where I live and work. Both countries have given me material, perspective, and reason to write. But my satirical voice works best on American targets because I see this country with fresh immigrant eyes while understanding it intimately enough to nail the details.
Today I interviewed a Nigerian-American tech worker for background research on a piece about Silicon Valley’s diversity theater. She asked how I survived Trump’s second term immigration policies. I gave her the sanitized versionbureaucratic nightmare, legal fees, constant anxiety. The real version involves tears, panic attacks, and genuinely believing I’d be deported. Those scars don’t heal. They just become fuel for satire.
Being the only female West African immigrant granted citizenship during that period makes me a statistical anomaly. Trump’s second term was designed to exclude people like me. That I succeeded anyway isn’t triumphit’s luck, privilege of education and English fluency, and probably some cosmic joke. But that experience gives me authority. I earned the right to satirize America by surviving its worst impulses.
Tonight I’m celebrating small victories: another week of published work, growing readership, and the satisfaction of making people uncomfortable. Satire isn’t supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to be sharp, precise, and unavoidable. Like good West African pepper soupit burns, but you can’t stop eating it.
Marcus approved three more pitches for next week. The editorial calendar is full, my voice is strong, and the satire is flowing. Some days this job feels impossiblebeing funny about tragic subjects while maintaining ethical lines while surviving constant criticism. Other days, like today, it feels like exactly what I was meant to do. Today is a good day. Tomorrow might not be. But today, right now, I’m exactly where I should be: writing truth, packaging it in humor, and trusting readers to do the uncomfortable work of recognizing themselves in the mirror.
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MY HOME PAGE: Bohiney Magazine (Aisha Muharrar)
