THE YEAR I DUSTED MY SEAT AND WALKED AWAY

A few months ago during morning devotion, my father said to me sullenly, with the voice he reserved for any particular child of his that was erring or “trending” in the wrong light, “You are not getting any younger. You are twenty-seven, twenty-seven years old;” as if by repeating it, the reality of my age and the expectations that follow would dawn on me.

I have not always lived at home. On this occasion, I was here for a month and few weeks. I returned after I resigned from my job at the bank in Nsukka. My rent had expired…

A friend and I were trading childhood memories and he told me of a time when he and his friends, all little boys, heckled a woman dressed in a tight pair of jeans. They followed her down the streets, hitting on empty cans and tins, chanting Nwanyi-trouser.

In those days, in the shanty parts of the small town where we grew up, it was considered brazen for women to wear trousers and the ridicule that came with donning a pair was almost inevitable. Men who sat on low fences and on street pavements, passing lazy afternoons in the languor of…

I was seventeen and despondent when I first found God. I had wanted to go to the university but impossible hinderances stood in my way.

A suspicious fee my parents could not afford needed to be paid. So I stayed home and languished for an entire year.

That year, I needed to believe in something, because the major belief I was told to imbibe- work hard in school and you would excel- failed me. I had passed all necessary exams, why was I still denied the opportunity?

So I sought God on my own and I found him. He taught…

We all thought the first would do us in, capsizing our teenage world to a rubble of emotions not even the love of our mothers prepared us for. We were young, too young to know the elasticity of our heart, the vastness of its spread, how staunchly it beats even in the face of dejection. And because we underestimate its features, we think, Nah, never again.

But we will survive the second time when the one we love morphs into a thing, some creature our soul ceases to recognize and we will wonder how something so lovely and tangible sublimates…

Dear Mama
Behind the facade of our daily tiffs, beneath the moments we do not see eye to eye, and though I pretend sometimes not to get your points, I have come to recognize your noble intentions: to raise good daughters of stellar character. And in this I shall liken you to a gardener tending her plants with fevered care, turning the rich loam, plucking out weeds and watering the soil.

You toil away with furrowed brows, with an attention that does not waver in rain and in shine. A dutiful gardener glories in the flourishing of her plants; she…

When my father died, my mom was freed from her life in the kitchen

Photo: Inti St. Clair/Getty Images

Ever since my father died, my mother no longer whips up magic in the kitchen. This is not for grief; she has done her time at the school of mourning. These days you will catch her, radiant and beautiful as ever, tending to her life with her infamous pizazz. But what has happened to her cooking? To those long hours of kindling up the fireplace and hovering over the broth like an alchemist in the middle of an invention?

One evening, after she had brought down another pot of uninspiring soup from the gas cooker, the jesters she calls her…

Because it is not a fanfare.
Because my village is very far. Because it is an event best suited for those who knew him personally.
Because I will cry when they lay him to his grave, when the last gravel is tossed on his coffin... and I do not want you to see me in that state.
Because it is not a reunion of old friends neither is it a yardstick to gauge who loves me or not.
Because, sometimes, grief is a private affair.

I hate funerals. I despise the atmosphere of mourning and the long faces and the…

Sneak peek and word around social media already had us anticipating a wickedly handsome Satan, but no one has yet captured in review how uber-talented Austine Onuoha is, and the vastness of his theatrical forte. In Satan, A dark Comedy, a play written and directed by Joy Isi Bewaji (her directorial debut), Onuoha sizzles and brings to three-dimension man’s most loathed enemy, the one who bears the brunt of our darkest cravings and secret sins.

The biggest concern many writers endure is entrusting their work in the hands of interpreters of art, that is, the actors and directors, and wishing…

BOOK REVIEW: THE GATHERING OF THE TRIBES BY EVANS UFELI

The Gathering Of The Tribes is the second work of fiction of writer and legal practitioner, Evans Ufeli, who rightly belongs to the school of writers like John Grisham; writers who hold deftly their legal practise and also excel in their literary bent. Ufeli is well renowned in his social causes and fight for justice, never shying away from taking on the cases of the under-represented and downtrodden.

It is apparent that Nigeria’s state of political mediocrity thugs heavy in the author’s heart which he wilfully expresses in this work…

(or an excuse for your roving eye)

A cord of three strands

A man

A wife

A Mistress

A MAN

When a man picks a mistress, he seeks an escape. He seeks a slice of enchantment to awaken a part of him that yearns for the carnal. He doesn’t seek warmth; warmth is in the bosom of the wife of his youth. Warmth is on the cheek of his sleeping child lain on his chest. Warmth is served in casserole dishes by the old handmaid of his household, the same maid who watched his infant head many years ago. When a man picks a mistress, he seeks heat. A flash of ecstasy. Evenings embroiled…

Ucheoma Onwutuebe

I write

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