As James Baldwin once said—and I paraphrase—I do not accept the labels others place upon me, because those labels come from their lens, not from the intention or truth of my work.
In a culture more obsessed with politics than with participating to make a difference, I often found myself disillusioned. That was the mood in October 2023. Joe Biden was still running for president, Eric Adams was scapegoating immigrants in New York City, and I—an immigrant myself—felt like silence was the most dangerous option.
It felt like a trap. Somebody had to do something and do it fast.
Looking back now, I see that part of surviving trauma is carrying the burden to help others avoid it. Once you begin to heal, a new pressure emerges: the responsibility to protect the next person, to save them from what hurt you.
So, I did something I never imagined possible: I registered with the NYC Campaign Finance Board to run for City Council in District 7. I wanted to turn despair into dialogue. I believed that the void I felt in my community—especially as an immigrant and LGBTQ+ person—could be filled by courageous, collective conversations. I believed that by organizing politically, not just protesting, we could build something lasting.
And yes, protest had been an outlet for me. I had organized, marched, shouted. It was righteous—but it wasn’t enough. Protest is the spark. But policy is the structure. I wanted to sit at the table where decisions were made—not just pound on the doors outside of it.
I wasn’t naïve about the power of politics, but I was naïve about the machine.
Because the truth is: you can’t critique the system effectively without knowing how it works. And once you step into it, the system tries to consume you. I was not just running for City Council—I was unknowingly running against one of the most well-funded, establishment-backed figures in the city: the pro-Israel movement’s “poster boy.” My opponent was endorsed by Solidarity PAC—New York’s AIPAC equivalent—and I would learn quickly what that meant.
I got my citizenship in November 2023. Days later, I launched my campaign. But because the Hamas attack on Israel had happened just weeks before (on October 7), the political landscape had transformed. Anything or anyone perceived as “pro-Palestine” became a target. And I—someone who once survived immigration detention and dared to speak up for others who’d been detained—was suddenly under a microscope.
I attended a rally after a Palestinian activist from Columbia University was unlawfully detained by ICE—the samedetention center I was once held in. I spoke out about the cruelty of our immigration system, something I’ve done for years. But this time, my words made me the target of a billionaire’s wrath.
Bill Ackman. Uber. Michael Bloomberg. Their political machine spent thousands of dollars in independent expenditures to crush my campaign. I spent 18 months of my life trying to better my community. They spent 18 days tearing it down.
And so, I’ve hesitated to share the full story. Because stories—especially political ones—are often reduced to motives and headlines. What was his agenda? Was he anti-Israel? Was he credible?
But as James Baldwin once said—and I paraphrase—I do not accept the labels others place upon me, because those labels come from their lens, not from the intention or truth of my work.
This is my attempt to share my lens. This is why I ran for office. This is what happened in the long, bruising months that followed—as a Black, queer, formerly detained immigrant who dared to step into a system not built for me.
I grew up in Warri, Nigeria. The lies, corruption, and bullying I witnessed there are not so different from what I’ve seen here in New York City. The only difference is how we package it. In Nigeria, we are told to feel ashamed. In New York, we are told to feel sophisticated.
But make no mistake—both systems serve the same master narrative: protect power, silence the outsider.
I’m still here. Still speaking. And still believing that the best way to change the system is to dare to participate.
