“No matter how much you hide your pain, Your eyes will never falter to tell the stories your lips could never unravel”.
It rained all through the night yesterday. Olamide was coming back home from work after a long 14-hour shift in the scalding sun, hands clenched to his briefcases and recently-purchased storebought goods. The air was crisp. Laughter, banter exchanges and the peppering smells of suya wafted in the air, creating a chaotic yet electric atmosphere that mirrored most of evening-time in Lagos. …
“In Nigeria, we are merely surviving. Life is having a nation where the child of nobody can become somebody without knowing anybody. And I tell you, we don’t have that country”
Aisha Yesufu, Nigerian socio-political activist & co-convenor of Bring Back Our Girls Movement
In the span of less than a week, several Nigerians — in and out of Nigeria, scattered across the world — have been formidably engaged in peaceful, powerful protests towards achieving 5 goals; the principal one being the elimination of the SARS Unit Force. From Lagos to London, Dublin to Texas, Berlin to Toronto, and across…
Davis glanced outside the window with resentment in his eyes. The neighbors’ kids were carelessly playing on their new swingset in golden hour’s glow: joyful cries were voiced up and down as they took turns on the slides, climbed up the poles, and jumped off the monkey bars. Sarah, the youngest child, moved in tow with Luke, the middle child, or ‘instigator’, rather. Evan, the babysitter (being the oldest of the three) didn’t move with as much glee or enthusiasm as he always ended up caring for them if they were to get injured or recklessly hurt each other. It…
Do any of these actions sound familiar? That’s probably because you’re doing one of these several actions about 30 or more times a day.
the world is beyond repair. everything is broken and beyond repair.
For any sort of change to commence, the earth must scream. Shatter. It must lose balance.
The winds must roar. Loudly. violently, with the alto of a thousand beasts in tow
Followed by the maniacal crying of the sea, opening itself up to land through wild-spread erosion
Ripping the very foundation we stand on apart, piece by piece, fragment by fragment
This is reality.
Our world can never be the same again.
Not until the earth shouts at its inhabitants, with a voice of anger and justified rage
On certain late nights, being outside is more favorable than staying in. During those nights, the sky awakens. Stars collide. Constellations form. Myriads of horoscopes become alive in the vast, endless space covered with dots of light. Curious minds are already at alert, moving outside to their telescopes and blankets, staring in awe of the beauty of work nighttime is.
But what if this wasn’t just an allusion to darkness, constellations, and negative connotations?
What if the night held more in store for us that we just aren’t willing to come to terms with and accept? What does nighttime really…
Elizabeth loved winter.
It was that one time where nature could go nude without losing its aesthetic. Where the kids could make versions of themselves in the snow. Where families could willingly confine themselves at home with warm chocolate, cozied together around the fireplace. The one period where the sky embellishes the earth with the prettiest of snowflakes, leaving streets and cars to be covered, six inches deep of it.
Contrary to popular opinion, Elizabeth loved winter for the iota of solace it brought to her every year. In one of the corners of her spacious living room, there is…
Mike wanted to write a story, his own story, but he knew better because these types of stories never go right. They were always lacking simpler things. Those little things that made life just a bit more bearable. A quiet home, a family that loved one another, decent friends, mental stability. This was, or still are, what we (Mike) perceive when we think of simpler things. Things like that. In the quaint, metropolitan city of London, this was not the case. Everything was just too much and never enough.
It was 11:30 am. The sky was empty, the streets were…
I speak to my grandfather with my ears tied
His fingers are loose, Italian-like, a successional rhythm and vim enlaced within
Whereas mine, stiff in solidarity, silently swinging behind me
The sky is purple-red. It’s late. A cold, callous wind embraces the world with a wicked laugh.
My grandfather looks at me with eyes piqued
To the corners of my scalp, from my ears to the crevices of my nose
Watches the weak Yoruba dance haphazardly off my tongue
Like a battered drum being beaten with sticks made from metal, he says
I watch him with the purest green envy
You can find me here, at the crossroads of it all
Where the weary, exhausted sun lies its fatigue behind the moon’s shadow
With swarms of bodies draped in corporate ties, in winter’s fall
Commuting, trekking, displacing themselves away and back into tomorrow’s afterglow
You can’t find me there, not at the centre
The birds and bees, in tow, move, live not long to see what happens here, all foreshadowed
Slyly sneaking, quiet as a corpse, to find what’s sweet in the middle
Hovering, diverging, fluttering broken wings, arrested by the silence and shortly then, disemboweled
You can always find…
j’écris. nigerian, and other associations.