House of Tawakool

House of Tawakool A storytelling house for African life, culture, food, and diaspora experiences. We learn, grow and catch fun together

07/28/2026

There comes a time when a people must respectfully ask the world not only to admire their culture, but to honour it.

The Yoruba are not a forgotten civilization whose stories can be borrowed without thought. We are a living people. Our language is spoken by millions. Our traditions are practised across continents. Our values, history, art, philosophy, and spirituality continue to shape lives from West Africa to the Americas and beyond.

When the world chooses to tell a story rooted in Yoruba heritage, it is not merely adapting folklore—it is engaging with the identity of a people.

As conversations continue around the forthcoming adaptation of Children of Blood and Bone, House of Tawakool is not rushing to judgment. We await the full facts and will judge the finished work on its merits. But this moment raises an important question that extends far beyond one film:

How should the global entertainment industry engage with living cultures?

Respect is more than using our names, symbols, or mythology. Respect means listening to our voices, consulting our scholars, creating opportunities for our creatives, and recognizing that culture is not simply an artistic resource—it is a people’s heritage.

This is not a call against any individual, any country, or any production. It is a call for a higher standard.

We believe that stories inspired by African cultures should be told with authenticity, humility, and meaningful collaboration with the communities whose histories inspire them.

Our culture is not merely intellectual property.

It is a living civilization.

As Yoruba people, we welcome the world to learn from us, celebrate with us, and tell stories that reflect the richness of our heritage. But we also ask that our dignity walk alongside our stories wherever they travel.

This conversation is bigger than one film.

It is about the legacy we leave for generations yet unborn.

House of Tawakool

Every story has a home. Every home has an essence. Welcome to the House of Tawakool.

07/11/2026

Do I Dare to Believe?

Last night, after I finished writing another screenplay, I closed my laptop, switched off the light and lay quietly on my bed.

The room was silent.

But my mind wasn’t.

It wandered into the future.

I imagined people sitting in a cinema, laughing at the jokes, wiping away tears at the emotional scenes, talking about the characters as though they were real people.

For a few beautiful moments, the dream felt so close I could almost touch it.

Then reality quietly tapped me on the shoulder.

“But what if it never happens?”

That one question has followed me for years.

Not because I don’t dream.

Perhaps because I have dreamed so many dreams.

I’ve written books.

I’ve written screenplays.

I’ve produced films.

I’ve learned different trades.

I’ve worked different jobs.

I’ve taken courses.

I’ve started businesses.

I’ve sold products.

Every chapter of my life has been driven by one stubborn belief:

“Maybe this is the one.”

Yet somehow, success has always seemed to stay one street ahead of me.

Close enough to see.

Too far to hold.

Sometimes I ask myself difficult questions.

Am I trying too many things?

Do I change direction too quickly?

Am I chasing opportunities instead of building one?

Or…

Is there simply something successful people have that I don’t?

Talent?

Luck?

Connections?

A special gift that God forgot to put inside me?

Those thoughts are not easy to admit.

We celebrate people’s victories.

We rarely talk about the quiet conversations they have with themselves when nobody is watching.

The doubts.

The disappointments.

The fear that maybe you are working hard… but walking in circles.

Then something else came to mind.

What if success is not avoiding failure?

What if success is refusing to let failure have the final word?

When I looked back, I realised something.

Every time one dream didn’t work out, I found the courage to dream again.

Not because I enjoyed disappointment.

But because something inside me refused to die.

Perhaps that is the real gift.

Not brilliance.

Not luck.

Not perfect timing.

Hope.

The kind of hope that quietly gets up after every setback and says,

“Let’s try one more time.”

I don’t know whether this screenplay will change my life.

I don’t know whether the next film will finally open the door I’ve been knocking on for years.

I don’t even know whether success is waiting around the next corner or ten more miles ahead.

But I know this.

The day I stop believing…

…is the day I stop becoming the person my dreams have been trying to shape all along.

So tonight, I’ll dream again.

Not because I am certain.

But because somewhere between doubt and faith…

…I have learned that sometimes the bravest thing a dreamer can do is simply to believe one more time.




House of Tawakool
Where stories live.

07/09/2026


THE COST OF CHASING TOMORROW
Yesterday, my phone rang.
On the other end was a friend.
His voice was different.
Heavy.
Broken.
His mother had passed away.
For a few moments, neither of us had much to say. Sometimes words are simply too small for the weight people carry.
He is a refugee claimant in Canada.
He cannot travel home.
Not yet.
The hardest part wasn't just that his mother had died.
It was knowing that for the last three years, he had not seen her. He told me she kept asking about him until her final days, hoping she would see her son one more time.
That meeting never happened.
Now he cannot even return to stand beside her grave, hold the hands of his siblings, or receive the comforting embrace of relatives who understand his pain without saying a word.
When I ended the call, I sat quietly for a long time.
His story reminded me that behind many smiles in the diaspora are quiet battles that nobody sees.
Many of us left home believing we were travelling toward a better future.
And perhaps we are.
But sometimes, while we are busy building tomorrow, life back home refuses to wait.
Parents grow older.
Children grow up.
Friends move on.
Families change.
Sometimes, before we realise it, years have slipped through our fingers.
Back home in Africa, grief is rarely carried alone.
Neighbours come.
Family gathers.
People sit with you, pray with you, cry with you, and sometimes say nothing at all because their presence is enough.
Here, grief can feel different.
The world continues as though nothing has happened.
People still go to work.
The buses still arrive on time.
The supermarket is still open.
Yet somewhere inside you, time has stopped.
You carry your loss quietly while everyone else carries on with their day.
As I thought about my friend, one question lingered in my heart.
What is the true cost of leaving home?
For some, it is missing birthdays.
For others, weddings.
For others still, it is saying goodbye through a phone screen, knowing you cannot make one last journey home.
None of this means the decision to migrate is wrong.
Many of us came seeking safety, opportunity, or a better future for our families.
Those reasons are real.
They matter.
But perhaps we don't speak enough about the emotional price that sometimes accompanies the journey.
If you still have parents, call them today.
If you have someone you've been meaning to check on, don't postpone it.
Some conversations can wait.
Others cannot.
Today, my heart is with my friend.
May his mother's soul rest in perfect peace.
And may all of us living far from home find the strength to carry both our dreams... and the distance they sometimes demand.
Have you ever had a cause to pay a price for your choice in life? Please, share your story with us.


Everyone has a story.
Every story has a home.
Every home has an essence.

This is the House of Tawakool.
this is the home where stories thrive and live.

07/08/2026



The Mangoes We Walked Past

Whenever people in our village talked about success, the conversation usually ended the same way.

“You have to travel abroad.”

“If only I could get a visa.”

“There is nothing left here.”

Among those voices was a young man named Tunde.

Like many of his friends, he dreamed of leaving. Every spare naira went into passport applications, language tests and travel plans that never quite worked out.

One afternoon, while waiting for a bus that was already three hours late, he sat under a huge mango tree. Children were throwing stones into the branches, laughing as ripe mangoes dropped onto the dusty road.

Some they ate.

Most they ignored.

By evening, dozens of ripe mangoes lay scattered on the ground, slowly spoiling under the sun.

An elderly woman walking past shook her head and smiled.

“In another country,” she said, “someone would make a business out of those mangoes.”

The words stayed with him.

The next morning, instead of waiting for another opportunity to leave, Tunde borrowed a few buckets from his neighbour and gathered the fallen fruit.

His first batches of mango juice were far from perfect.

Some bottles fermented too quickly.

Some labels peeled off after a few days.

A few customers politely told him it tasted more like hope than mango.

He laughed, went back home, adjusted the recipe and tried again.

When mango season ended, he didn’t stop.

He began drying mango slices.

Then pineapples.

Then peppers.

Soon, farmers who had always watched part of their harvest rot in the fields started bringing produce to him instead.

“What can you do with these?” they would ask.

He always found an answer.

A few years later, the little shed where he started could no longer hold the business.

Young people from the community found work washing, slicing, drying and packaging fruit.

Local shops began stocking his products.

One day, someone asked him the question he had once asked himself.

“So… did you ever make it abroad?”

Tunde smiled.

“No.”

“Weren’t you disappointed?”

He looked around the small factory buzzing with activity.

“I still dream of travelling one day,” he said. “But I stopped believing that opportunity only speaks with a foreign accent.”

His answer made me think.

Sometimes we spend so much time looking over the fence that we forget to look at what is already growing in our own backyard.

That doesn’t mean everyone should stay where they are.

For many people, travelling opens doors that would never have opened otherwise.

There is nothing wrong with seeking opportunities elsewhere.

But perhaps there is another lesson worth remembering.

Opportunity is not always hidden in distant places.

Sometimes…

It falls from a tree every morning, and everyone walks past it.

The question is not whether opportunity exists.

The question is whether we recognise it when we see it.

Everyone has a story.
Every story has a home.
Every home has an essence.

This is House of Tawakool.
This is where stories thrive and live.

07/07/2026

The Price Nobody Calculates

People often ask whether relocating abroad is worth it.

I have come to realise that there is no simple answer.

Every dream has a price.

Every decision demands a sacrifice.

Some people arrive and flourish.

Some struggle for years before finding their feet.

Others discover that the greatest cost of migration is not financial at all.

It is the quiet changes that happen to families.

A few years ago, I met a woman whose story has never quite left me.

She and her husband had left Africa with their two young children, hoping to build a better future. Like many immigrant families, they worked hard, made sacrifices, and believed that brighter days were ahead.

Then life changed.

Their immigration status became uncertain.

Every option they considered carried risk.

After many conversations, the wife suggested they move to Canada and make a fresh start. She believed it would give their children a better chance.

Her husband wasn’t convinced.

He told her he could not face the uncertainty of starting over again.

In the end, they made a painful decision.

She travelled to Canada with the children.

He returned home.

Neither imagined that what they thought would be a temporary separation would stretch into years.

Life in Canada was anything but easy.

She worked, studied, worried, and raised two children alone.

She attended parent-teacher meetings by herself.

She celebrated birthdays without her husband beside her.

When the children fell sick, there was no one to take turns staying awake through the night.

Every victory carried a little loneliness.

Yet she never gave up.

Years later, her perseverance paid off.

She finally secured permanent status.

One of the first things she did was begin the process of sponsoring her husband.

Friends admired her loyalty.

“After everything,” one of them said, “you still brought him over.”

She smiled.

“Marriage isn’t only for the easy days.”

When he finally arrived in Canada, everyone expected their family to begin again.

For a few weeks, it looked as though they would.

Then he travelled back home.

At first, there was always a reason.

Business.

Family matters.

A ceremony.

Another urgent trip.

Eventually, the truth surfaced.

While she had been building a future for their family, he had quietly built another family of his own.

He had remarried.

The revelation hurt.

But what hurt even more was discovering that he had used the opportunity she created to bring his new wife to Canada on a visitor’s visa.

Later, he encouraged the woman to seek asylum in another city while he continued travelling between both households.

Meanwhile, the first wife remained where she had always been.

Paying the bills.

Supporting the children.

Trying to explain to them why their father was never around for long.

When she shared her story with me, she wasn’t looking for sympathy.

She simply said something I have never forgotten.

“I thought the hardest part would be leaving home.

I didn’t know the hardest part would be losing the home I thought I already had.”

Her words stayed with me.

Migration changes many things.

It changes our address.

Our careers.

Our friendships.

Sometimes…

It changes our marriages too.

I still believe that relocating can open doors that once seemed impossible.

Many families have built beautiful lives because they took that courageous step.

But stories like this remind me that immigration does not solve every problem.

Whatever is already fragile in a relationship often becomes more fragile when distance, uncertainty, financial pressure, and loneliness are added to the equation.

Perhaps that is why I no longer ask whether relocation is worth the price.

Instead, I ask a different question.

What are we prepared to protect while chasing a better life?

Because opportunities can be rebuilt.

Money can be earned again.

Even careers can start over.

But some relationships, once broken, never quite find their way home.
Have you paid any price for your ambition? Share your experience in the comment section.

Everyone has a story.
Every story has a home.
Every home has an essence.
This is House of Tawakool.
This is where stories thrive and live.

07/07/2026

The Hardest Word I Have Said to My Son
There are many things nobody prepares you for as a parent.
You prepare for sleepless nights when they are babies. You prepare for school fees, illnesses, birthdays, and the countless sacrifices that come with raising children.
But nobody prepares you for the day when the most loving thing you can say to your own child is simply...
"No."
I never imagined that day would come for me. I have three children, two sons and a daughter. Like many parents, I have spent most of my adult life trying to make sure they never lacked opportunities that I never had.
Life has taken me on a long journey. I came to abroad as a sojourner carrying more than a suitcase and a dream. I carried fear, questions, memories of what I left behind, and worries about what tomorrow would look like. Those early years were not easy. There were days when every dollar had to be stretched, every opportunity had to be fought for, and every small achievement felt like climbing a mountain.
Slowly, things became better. I became a citizen, found my feet, and promised myself that if my children were willing to dream, I would do everything within my power to help them.
By the grace of God, my eldest son and my daughter graduated from university. I was privileged to support their dreams, and today they both have their dreamed jobs.
My youngest son still lives with me in abroad. Being underage, he is still my responsibility, and I gladly carry that responsibility because that is what parents do.
If there is one thing my children will never accuse me of, it is abandoning them.
But every parent knows that children are different. My eldest son has a generous heart, but money seems to disappear from his hands almost as quickly as it arrives. Sometimes I wonder if he believes bank accounts refill themselves overnight. Whenever he needed help, I tried my best. I sent money, offered advice, and hoped that with time he would learn that earning money is often much harder than spending it.
Then today happened.
He asked again.
I looked at my phone for a long time before replying.
It wasn't because I didn't have compassion. It wasn't because I had stopped loving him.
It was because I realised that every "yes" I had given in the past had quietly delayed a lesson he needed to learn for himself.
For the first time, I replied with one word.
No.
It was probably one of the shortest messages I have ever sent him.
Yet it felt like the heaviest.
After sending it, I sat quietly for a while. I wasn't angry. I wasn't happy either. I was simply a mother trying to balance love with wisdom.
Sometimes we think good parenting means removing every obstacle from our children's path.
But perhaps good parenting also means allowing them to carry some of the weight themselves.
I still pray for my son.
I still want him to succeed.
I still want him to know that my door will always be open.
But today, I discovered that love is not always found in giving.
Sometimes...
Love is found in saying NO.
Is there a moment you have any cause to say NO to someone you love? How did you feel afterward?
House of Tawakool

07/07/2026

Last Wednesday was Canada Day.
Normally, Canada Day in my house looks like this: I cook a variety of African dishes, invite friends over, and later join the crowd at Parliament Hill for the celebrations. It’s usually loud, busy, and full of laughter.
But this year was different.
I am not working at the moment, and my Ontario Works support was temporarily delayed. So instead of cancelling everything, I decided to adjust.
I went to my freezer like someone on a mission.
Chicken. Leftover stew. Whatever I could find.
And I cooked anyway.
Simple, but intentional: tuwo, gbegiri, ewedu, wanke, fried plantain, and a side of sh*to.
Nothing fancy. Just survival cooking with dignity.
Later, some of my friends from another African country came around. They sat down and began eating the tuwo with ewedu only.
So I asked them, gently, “Where is the gbegiri?”
They paused.
Then one of them said, very confidently, that they actually saw the gbegiri… but they thought it was supposed to be eaten like soup.
We all burst into laughter.
Because how do you explain that gbegiri is not just “soup”… it is part of an identity called abula?
In that moment, I realised something again:
Even in the diaspora, we are still learning each other’s cultures one plate at a time.
Then another thought came quietly.
Back home, you hardly think about freezer storage the same way. Power cuts, unstable electricity—you learn quickly not to depend too much on storing things long-term. You cook, you share, you finish it.
Here, life is different. You can store, forget, and rediscover.
But sometimes, even with a full freezer, what you are really craving is not just food…
It is community.
It is laughter.
It is home.
Yesterday wasn’t the Canada Day I planned.
But it was still a Canada Day I will remember.
Cultural norms, foods, clothing etc are often misunderstood by outsiders, do you have a similar story? please, share with us.


House of Tawakool.

07/06/2026

Welcome to the House of Tawakool.

I share African life, diaspora experiences, culture, food memories, humour, and reflections from everyday moments in Canada and beyond.

Here you will find:

— personal and humorous stories

of an African in Canada — reflections on life and identity

Nobody Told Me About Canada — small discoveries and observations

Everyone has a story.
Every story has a home.
Every home has an essence.

Welcome to the House of Tawakool.
This is where stories live and thrive.

Address

Ottawa, ON

Telephone

+2348033808043

Website

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