Day: August 22, 2025
The Taste of Forgotten Summers
Growing up in Nigeria, summer meant something entirely different. It wasn’t about barbecues, beaches, or picnics. It was nights of stormy rains, the restless hum of thunder, and the quiet hope for August Break; that small window of sunlight in the Garden City, where everything smelled of wet earth and damp air. Each city carried
We Were Lanterns Once
26th June 2015. I remember the night sky filling with paper lanterns, each of us holding a flame in our hands as though we were cradling the future itself. I let mine go with a silent prayer, a dream too big for words; a life beyond the borders I knew, a career that mattered, a
The Letter I Almost Sent
Dear X, I see you on the gram, living, smiling, and it makes me smile too. You’ve always been special. Sometimes I try to remember why we stopped talking, though the memory feels distant, blurred. What once felt so important now feels so small. I wish I could take back the words I said, not
Where Shadows Go to Rest
I carry my scars. As a child, I wore them painfully visible for anyone to see. I invented excuses for why I was different, but they clung to me like shadows, inseparable, reminding me of every flaw whenever the mirror stared back. But I grew. And with growth came choice. I chose to rewrite the
The Sound of Petals Breaking
walked into the room, and in that moment my reaction wasn’t from my mind my mouth had its own will to fall open. There it was. Thousands of roses. I moved slowly across the candle-lit floor, each step on the petal confetti bringing me closer to the words I knew I had to say in
A Room That Remembers
They say the walls have ears, but I’m convinced they have eyes too. A room is never truly empty, it keeps a record of what has passed through it. Mine has witnessed hurt and healing, anger and forgiveness, praise and prayer. It knows the seasons of weakness and joy, of friendship, pain, and love. Every