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Welcome to In10macy!
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All the latest from In10macy and more
The
PHILOSOPHY of In10macy
IN10MACY IS A LUXURY STORYTELLING PLATFORM.
BUILT FOR MEN WHO THINK DEEPLY — AND WOMEN WHO NEVER SHRINK.
We tell stories that read like cinema,
feel like truth,
and hit like memory.
Short Stories. Moodboards. Illustrations. Conversations.
All crafted to explore presence, power, emotional intelligence, and the art of becoming.
This is where modern masculinity meets elegance.
Where women aren’t asked to shrink to be seen.
Where high standards, healing, and storytelling meet on equal ground.
WHO IT’S FOR:
The man who leads with emotional intelligence.
The woman who protect their glow, refuse to shrink, and seek spaces that honour their strength, clarity, and complexity.
This is for the ones who’ve scrolled through enough nonsense and want something that finally hits.
"IF YOU’VE EVER BEEN TOLD YOU’RE ‘TOO MUCH’ —THIS ROOM WAS BUILT TO HOLD ALL OF YOU."
South London born. Nigerian raised. She walks with rhythm in her step and protection in her tone.
She was always told she was too loud.
By the little white schoolboys running past her locker—avoiding a conk to the head.
Too bold.
Too passionate.
Too much.
She wasn’t angry. She was articulate.
But articulation wrapped in melanin gets misread as aggression.
She learned that early.
In classrooms where she raised her hand too quick.
In offices where her confidence got called “attitude.”
In friendships where she was expected to listen but never be heard.
But here’s the thing:
The world trained her to raise her voice.
Because when no one listens to you whisper, you learn to speak with fire 🔥
This story isn’t about defending herself.
It’s about redefining herself.
The loud Black woman is not a trope.
She’s a truth.
And behind that voice?
Is a girl who was tired of translating her pain into politeness.
She wasn’t born with a mic in her hand.
But life handed her one—every time someone tried to mute her worth.
Now she speaks.
Not to be heard.
But to be felt.
This is her story.
A story about reclaiming space.
About letting softness and strength exist in the same sentence.
Because identity is more than what the world says about you.
It’s what you decide to say back.
They raised her in church.
Not the hands-lifted, soul-healing kind.
The one with heavy hats and heavier judgment.
Where “Amen” came with side-eyes and silence came dressed as respect.
Ijeoma sat through sermons more cultural than spiritual.
They didn’t speak to her —
they spoke at her.
Told her to soften her voice.
Close her legs.
Pray about it.
But how do you pray when your trauma don’t speak in tongues?
Still — she showed up.
Sunday after Sunday.
And not because the pastor saw her.
But because
Because even when the pews were full of rules,
the altar still whispered grace.
And somewhere between her grandmother’s hymns
and the echo of her own questions,
Ijeoma didn’t find religion.
She found relationship.
Not with a performance.
But with a Presence.
God didn’t ask her to shrink.
Didn’t tell her she was “too loud.”
Didn’t need her to bleach her emotions for a blessing.
He just said:
Come as you are.
And that?
That changed everything.
Because when the world tried to tone her down —
He turned the volume up on her purpose.
They called her loud like it was an insult.
But Ijeoma knew better.
She came from women who never got to be loud.
Women who held pain behind pursed lips
and prayers behind closed doors.
Her grandmother spoke in proverbs —
not because she didn’t have opinions,
but because the world didn’t make space for her truth.
Her mother?
She didn’t cry at funerals.
She cooked for everyone else instead.
Strength, in Ijeoma’s bloodline,
wasn’t taught.
It was lived.
So when Ijeoma raised her voice —
in meetings,
in protests,
in poetry slams no one thought she’d enter —
it wasn’t noise.
It was inheritance.
It was survival in surround sound.
It was volume passed down like gold bangles and grief.
Every syllable she spoke
carried the rhythm of women who whispered “not yet”
and meant “your time will come.”
And when the world told her
“your tone is too much,”
She thought of her grandma kneading dough with tired hands.
Of her mother ironing uniforms by moonlight.
Of the girls she’s never met
who need proof they don’t have to shrink to survive.
So she spoke — louder.
For them.
For her.
For a black woman's legacy.
She got fired on a Thursday.
Not because she underperformed.
But because she outshone.
She brought too many ideas.
Spoke too confidently.
Asked too many questions.
Her white manager said she just didn’t “fit the culture.”
She knew what that meant.
She smiled on the Zoom call, nodded, logged off — then slid to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinet like her backbone gave up.
No tears yet.
Just silence so loud it pressed on her ribs.
And just when she thought she could breathe —
her phone rang.
It was her little sister.
Mum collapsed.
Hospital.
No answers.
Just more waiting rooms and worry.
Ijeoma didn’t flinch.
She packed a bag.
Braided her sister’s hair.
Prayed over her mother’s bed like the prayers weren’t burning a hole in her throat.
Three days. No sleep.
Still smiling when the nurse came in.
Still asking for updates.
Still checking if her sister ate.
And just when things settled — just enough to catch her breath —
her ex popped back up.
The one who said he loved how real she was —
until her real needed space and healing.
Now he missed her.
Now he wanted “his woman back.”
Like she was a pause button he could press again.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t need one more person asking for access without accountability.
But the worst part?
She almost replied.
Almost said yes.
Because when you’re constantly pouring, even a toxic cup can look like comfort.
That night, she sat alone on her mother’s porch.
Phone dead.
Mouth dry.
Heart heavier than her body could carry.
She wanted to scream.
Not for attention —
but for release.
Because the world kept asking her to carry everything —
but never asked what it cost to not break.
And that night?
She did.
She broke.
Open.
Not shattered.
But cracked wide enough for the pain to pour out.
No Instagram quotes.
No gospel playlist.
Just a woman on a porch, in a hoodie, whispering:
“God… if you’re still with me… say something.”
And somehow, in the stillness —
She heard it.
Not in words.
But in breath.
The kind you take when you’ve survived what was designed to destroy you.
That’s not what healing looks like.
She moved through.
Slowly.
Intentionally.
Like each breath had to be re-learned.
She didn’t get her dream job back.
She created a freelance space where her ideas were no longer boxed in — they were paid for.
She started writing again.
Not for LinkedIn claps.
But for the little girl inside her who still needed to be heard.
She spoke at a women’s shelter — one she used to walk past on her way to sixth form —
and the girls there didn’t blink once while she told her story.
She wasn’t just “relatable.”
She was proof.
Proof that Black women can break and still build.
That survival ain’t just a flex — it’s a ministry.
That being called “too loud” is code for “too powerful to ignore.”
Her mother got better.
Her sister started therapy.
And on a random Tuesday afternoon, the same company that fired her reposted one of her quotes on Instagram.
No tag.
No credit.
Just proof the world can steal the sound but never the soul.
And as for the ex?
She saw him once —
in traffic.
He rolled his window down. Smiled like time hadn’t passed.
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t even turn the music down.
She wasn’t angry.
She just didn’t have space for someone who only showed up when the healing was done.
Now?
She hosts healing circles in the same church that once told her to be quiet.
And when she speaks — women listen.
Not because she’s shouting.
But because her presence fills the room before her voice ever does.
She learned how to be loud without raising her voice.
Learned that resilience can sound like rest.
That softness is a strategy, not a weakness.
That being a Black woman isn’t about surviving everything.
It’s about not apologizing when you finally thrive.
“They called me too loud for the room.
But maybe the room was never built to hold me.
I didn’t shrink.
I expanded — until I became the space.”
Being labeled "too loud" was never Ijeoma's burden - it was brilliance misnamed.
Power dosen't always whisper. Sometimes it echoes. When you stop shrinking, you start becoming.
The Purpose Movement (Ireland) –
A community-driven platform committed to empowering Irish youth and amplifying their voices through art, education, and storytelling. They create space for identity, healing, and leadership in a country still learning to listen. Learn more at thepurposemovement.ie or follow their work on Instagram @thepurposemovement.
#STAYTEN
#IN10MACY
#10OUT
Born on the first year of the greatest century to ever exist, its only makes sense that a name like mine was a part of the equation. But even a ni**a like me got no blueprint. With mortals like 2Pac, Hugh Hef’, and the Great Gatsby breathing, the youth in me figured out the game. After all, real recognizes real. But what did ‘real’ mean to a ten-year-old me?
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