When you think of home, you do not think of Paris where you have been living for a decade, but of Lagos where you were born and bred for three decades. It is why when you left Nigeria for France, a part of you held on to memories of smells, of tastes and of Lagos Island. One month into your new country, it began to feel like a long tiring vacation. You missed home terribly and it shocked you. Even your best friend was deeply disappointed when you told her how you felt. “You should consider yourself extremely lucky to…
The smell of coffee and cigarettes takes me back to Dubai in the late 2000s.
When I was a kid, we were fortunate enough to be avid travellers. On two trips to Dubai, we stayed in this particular apartment, just a few blocks from a mall. It was a modestly comfortable place — the staff were kind and we had access to everything we needed. …
A love poem speaks about freeing oneself from the wrings of ugly memories
Love’s fate is saline —
Sweet as salt
Seal it, fragment and all
Gulp naught as we dive
Breathe for me,
Let’s paint this sea red with divinity, not blood.
Memories are a burden
Protect the sovereignty of new moments
Be waterworn, cascade with the rhyming tide
Jive with the seaweeds, they are not star-crossed.
Savor madness, for love is as such,
And my heart is red with divinity, not blood.
A poem which seeks liberty for fauna
Let us fool around the sun
And suck from earth’s…
So yesterday I had lately lost in myself
When I took up a paper and pen and painted you.
At every corner of the four walls of this room,
& I adorned it with your six favourite colours.
Black & white as I become the curator of memories,
& as I placed each one on each wall of this room.
Just as it is believed that the earth is spherical,
But we are found often with one word.
“four corners of the world”
East, West, South and North & it was amazing as I behold it.
The four pieces of your memories hang out there,
The nostalgia of what we use…
“Maybe try warm milk before going to bed,” I said.
“That’s an old wives’ tale!” Simena said.
We were med students then, and the stress was keeping Simena awake.
“I swear it works,” I said.
Simena shook her head. “It’s not backed by evidence.”
I told her about the time I was a kid — how I would have bad dreams and how Ma would bring me warm milk. How that would always help me fall asleep.
“Placebo effect,” Simena said, yawning. “We can google it.”
We googled it, and Google agreed with Simena.
Decades since then, I’m sitting…
weightless/floating/i become a flower
released by the wind. & to be
amorphous is to expel
one’s self from self till form
disappears. this morning i watched
a boy shape-shift into
a man. this morning i
became that man & mother
teared. her tears like a stray petal
sought peace in the wind. & sometimes
a rumpled face with
flailing arms can be a synonym for
joy too. i can never
define metamorphosis without spewing
mother from my tongue. but i
know a thing begins when it
ends. i mean mother is dust in
body but flesh in
memory. nana readied me for life
but with thoughts of losing me
to it. & she believes the hourglass
can be a metaphor for
It is said that some people feel the rain and others just get wet. But nothing is said about those who melt in the rain. Perhaps because they are too insignificant to be mentioned, to even be recognized. Because, out in the rain, they barely last for a moment, they melt and they disappear and there’s nothing, no proof that they ever existed. And surely, that is why they stay hidden, only associating with few people. Eyinnaya was a case who shied away from the rain.
Unlike many of her acquaintants who discovered their adversity with rain when adolescence hit…
My eyes moved quickly across the page. Catherine and Bradley were about to KISS. “He leaned in. Her bosom brushed his chest and she sucked air in through her teeth. He slipped his hand in to her tresses…”
A gruff voice interrupted the next sentence. “Bimpe Ademola! Stand up!”
My heart thumped in my chest as I stood up. The sound of my metal seat grating on the floor was the only sound to be heard. Not even the loud whirring of the ceiling fan could distract from my incoming humiliation. Mr. Bolodeku’s eyes and thirty-one other pairs peered at…
I’ve not told God about the seventh uncle
taking down clay plates by my father’s coffin
we were coloured boys in the middle of June
on the 16th, Gabriel got 15 cents
with duck heads, caps and hell hounds that were not
found in the Bible. Gabriel told God he could not wait
to beat the culture drums and bury his navel after the funeral.
Gabriel is gay in the old homes where we use to collect beans for God’s sake.
Gabriel is old enough to give his sister a bath and likes to raise a little hell
when drying her clothes. Gabriel likes to do the dishes,
The other day at night, we received some very unusual guests. They were four in number — three robust men, and a lady. They were all dressed in the same style — black tops, red trousers. Their leader — the lady, did most of the talking as they addressed my parents. She was unbelievably calm as she spoke. Almost as if what she was asking my father could be easily provided, or if it was even there to be given out. I — even though face down on the floor — listened attentively to them. Father was, just as the…