It was one of those nights that didn’t feel real, the kind that sneaks up after a long drive when the world outside is finally quiet. We pulled into the park and let the car rest, the bonnet warm beneath us as we leaned back and looked up. The sky was endless, stars scattered like
She was unlike anyone I had ever met, so surreal in a way that made me question if she even belonged to this world. Like the moon, she carried a bold presence even from a distance, and somehow, without trying, she left a mark on my life. She wasn’t easy to approach, and maybe that
Everyone close to me knows about my fears.Most think it’s silly, but to me it feels real:One of them is the fear of not seeing all the incredible places and landmarks in the world.How could I leave this earth without experiencing the places where life began,where history unfolded,where magnificence whether myth or real still waits
Call me proud, but sometimes I feel the universe revolves around me. When I step outside, the wind seems to know my name. Maybe it’s just in my head, but I don’t mind. I’ve always felt seen without asking, and I’ve belonged without having to prove it. I’m just rare It’s not people who recognize
The Fisherman’s Tale I am in my nineties now. My knees ache with every step, and my body bends as though I carry the weight of the tides themselves. Yet, each morning, I drag myself out of my small hut, the wood eaten by time, its roof patched with palm fronds, its walls perfumed with
15th February 2014 Izghe was erased I don’t think anyone knowingly wants to be a martyr Poverty is heavy yes but that’s not what will kill you You wake up one morning and you see your life caught up in religious extremism Does it ever end? Everyone has moved on The Izghe massacre has faded
Friday, I got the call.I didn’t know what to do with myself.For once, I wanted to be held,to be taken care of,instead of always being the one who holds. I sat at my desk clicking on nothing,eyes stinging,sniffles caught in my throat.I don’t do well with pressure,never have. I clocked out early.I couldn’t think straight
I dont know if holding unto the memories and gifts is an act of faith or fear Oh brutal heart, just like my wrist, I’m holding too tight What if I unclench my hands to let go only to find out it has always been inside me Sometimes I wonder if holding on to memories
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
