Nneka M. Okona
Researcher, Journalist and Writer at Freelance
A Black woman writer from the South 〰️ SELF-CARE FOR GRIEF (2021) 〰️ THE LITTLE BOOK OF SELF-HEALING (2022) 〰️ rep: @RhetoricAndThis 〰️ Always writing. Always.
Articles
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1 month ago |
phillytrib.com | Nneka M. Okona
A mound of ground beef, squishy in my hands and cold to the touch, sizzles when it hits the hot Dutch oven, conjuring dreams of the spaghetti dish to come. I shower it with my pick of seasonings - a green cloud of dried oregano, tablespoons of onion and garlic powders, coriander, kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper - and the transcendent combination of onions and garlic turns translucent as they melt into the olive oil, fatty meat and a spattering of butter.
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2 months ago |
eater.com | Nneka M. Okona
Photo illustration by Lille Allen A week into 2025, we watched in horror as the Eaton and Palisades fires spread in Los Angeles, leading to at least 29 deaths, transforming neighborhoods forever, and displacing countless people. As climate change intensifies, the unfortunate truth is that many of us could be one natural disaster away from being displaced ourselves.
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Jan 22, 2025 |
theblackalone.substack.com | Nneka M. Okona
hello, i’m lonely. What an embarrassing fucking thing to admit. But I wanted to start this year—and this wider creative project—being more honest than is comfortable or convenient. I’ve spent most of my writing career, this year marking 20 years writing professionally which sounds almost unbelievable, spilling my guts online.
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Dec 21, 2024 |
theguardian.com | Nneka M. Okona
It stood on my kitchen bookshelf, Sylvia’s Family Soul Food Cookbook: From Hemingway, South Carolina, to Harlem, with its ashen purple spine and gold lettering that twinkled in the November light. In what felt like a taunt, the book’s presence made me reconsider a takeout Thanksgiving on the couch. Since 2021, I’ve lost both parents, which has consumed both my heart and my usual cooking mind, dampening my desire to reach for the familiar.
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Aug 21, 2024 |
harpersbazaar.com | Nneka M. Okona
In my mind as I read, in a time some eons ago or in the future that will never be, I’m sitting at a table as Toni Morrison scuttles around her kitchen, ginger rays of early sunset dancing across my lap and legs. With each flip of a page, each story of hers transporting me alongside characters that become my friends, I taste something on my tongue. I can smell the carrot cake she dutifully baked, one of her specialties, the room fragrant from the toasted scent of cardamom, allspice, and nutmeg.
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I’m going to a singles mixer tomorrow and I’m so excited to go and be on some big bullshit and just be taking numbers and getting free drinks because I am not ready to date in the least. Too sad, too much grief. I can fuck around though. 😭
You ever go to a restaurant and nothing on the menu speaks to you? This happens to me more often than I’m willing to admit. A lot of menus give basic and uninspired. Or what’s worse—the menu does not know what it wants to be so it comes off incohesive, random and scattered.
This piece was commissioned months ago and today I found out I’d been awarded a grant I’d applied to to cover my reporting & travel costs. Feeling really grateful & honored that my work on grief continues to expand. ✨
