Before it was a book, Restful was a promise Immaculata Abba made to herself in 2017, when she decided to piece her life back together. It grew slowly and deliberately from there: a newsletter, then a curatorial Instagram page, then a radio show on Oroko Radio, then, in 2025, a full anthology carrying the accumulated weight of years spent asking what it means to rest in a country that rarely affords its people the luxury. As Abba writes in her introduction, the book is a piece of her heart, made to offer an invitation to sit with oneself, and to believe that beauty and sweetness are still allowed, even now, even here.

The anthology gathers essays, poems, interviews, and photography from a cast of Nigerian writers and artists. Hauwa Saleh Abubakar’s Color Me Chronic sits with the particular grief of chronic illness and diminished capacity. Stella Inabo’s The Passport Photo of Stephen Aduku, described as the collection’s most widely shared piece, is a tender letter to a late father and the love a family keeps trying to place somewhere. Daniel Adeyemo’s Freewill closes on a devastating couplet about expectation and disappointment, while Ozoz Sokoh writes of losing her voice entirely during a quarter-life crisis that flung her far from home.

Elsewhere, the anthology turns to food, hair, and the body as sites of care passed down through generations. Gbope Onigbanjo writes of noodles prepared by a mother nursing her back from chronic stress; Oyindamola Depo-Oyedokun’s Who Natural Hair Help?, with photography by Adetutu Adediran, traces how a mother’s effort to ease her daughter’s pain became a model of self-care passed to a whole generation of Nigerian women. Three conversations round out the collection: Abba’s own interview with photographer Rachel Seidu, Oluwakemi Agbato’s surprising sit-down with Olayiwola Ojo, a retired designer of Nigeria’s banknotes, and a three-way dialogue between Abba, poet Wana Udobang, and documentarian Etinosa Yvonne on healing as a responsibility no one else can carry for you.

Restful was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut Nigeria’s Support and Connect initiative and is published by Studio Styles, with a cover illustration by Amina Gimba. The first edition is now available for purchase as a hard copy or ebook.  Follow @restful.ng on Instagram.

 

Excerpt:  The Passport Photo of Stephen Aduku by Stella Inabo

You stare at the camera, a slight squint in your eyes. Could you have

been facing the sun while your photographer’s back was turned to it?

Because I, too, squint in pictures whenever the sun is glaring at me.

 

Your brow is furrowed. Why so serious? Was it because you

were worried about getting a new job to support two brothers,

a sister, several nieces and nephews, a wife, and four daughters?

Or did you take this passport photo when you still had the job at

the Air Force? When were you Wing Commander Stephen Inabo

and not just Stephen Inabo?

 

I remember how leaving the Air Force broke you. You fought

with Mummy a lot. I understand your anger and fear. My job is

also my identity now. If I am not Stella Inabo, content writer at

Float, then who am I?

 

Your eyes. I keep going back to them. At my fifth(?) glance, I

noticed that they looked tired. Or is that defeat? Mummy told me

that you were supposed to be a pilot. But you got airsick a lot and

got relegated to a desk job. I get airsick too. Did you know that? I

don’t think so. We never flew together when you were still here.

 

Did the loss of your dreams delay your death? I ask because

Uncle Aniemeka flew his airplane too low and got tangled up

in electric wires. He was your best man and best friend. Would

you have been in that plane if you had passed all your flying

lessons without wanting to hurl up vomit?

 

I don’t know.

 

Maybe you’d still be alive because your career would have gone

differently and you would not have been passed up for promotion

so many times that you had to be retired from the Nigerian Airforce.

 

Salma, Ni’imah’s sister, is a pilot. Ni’imah told me that Salma

always got airsick when she started at Aviation College in Zaria.

But one of the instructors was her father’s friend and he’d take

her aside and encourage her to keep going.

 

Did any of your instructors believe in your dreams?

 

Benny, your grandson has your face.

He has a frown just like yours, and his

face is chubby, just like yours. Hardness

and softness co-existing. You met only

four of your grandchildren before you

died. Do you know that there are three

more younglings now?

 

Enyo-ojo, almost 2 years old.

 

She was alive when you were alive,

but she never got to meet you. You

entered a coma before she became

old enough to travel. I think she has

your temper. What would you say

about her tantrums?

 

Ojonimi, also almost 2 years old.

 

He was born a few months after your

death. Stephanie told me that she

was sad that he never got to meet

you. I told her that I was sad that you

wouldn’t be at my wedding.

 

Ojochegbe, almost 2 months as I

write this.

 

His name means God has done so

much. I think of what God has done,

especially when I think of you and

my eyes start to burn.

 

You see, after you passed, I fell into

darkness. I wasn’t angry with God. I

just wanted to be alone. I did things

the way I wanted. Then Stephanie

called me and I saw the light.

 

Now I pray like you. I don’t have your

Mountain of Fire prayer books though.

I just tell God what I feel and how

much pain I am in and how He has to

be my father now that you are gone.

 

Your passport photo reminds me of

the picture of you in your cassock. I’d

pay money to get that picture now. I

think it must have been in your old

phone. When I took your picture, I had

no notion of what the loss of a person

would mean, that pictures and videos

would be all I had to hold on to in the

future. If I did, I’d have saved that one.

 

I can’t remember much of the time

after you were ordained as a pastor. I

know your health was already failing

by then. But you had responsibility

and recognition and that made you

happy. I am glad you were happy,

Daddy. I really am.

Excerpt from Restful published by Studio Styles | Copyright © 2025 Studio Styles.

The first edition is now available for purchase as a hard copy or ebook.