I don't remember much. I hardly remember her face nor the cadence in her voice when she spelled out every syllable of my name. But the little things bring her back from the dead. The little things make it feel like she is here with me...
Read StoryMother taught us it was a woman's job to keep her home clean. "Wash your dishes as you use them. Keep things back in their places after use. Let everything have its own place, and Tobiloba, please, for the love of God, clean up your room!"
Read StoryNigeria called and I answered. Yes, I've got a lot to say! The first time you shit in a bucket, you're gripping the handles of your bigger bathing bucket in a slimy, Sprogyra-decorated bathroom somewhere in your "assigned" NYSC Camp...
Read StoryA learned eye scanning my room would spot them: an array of mementos, both big and small, souvenirs of lost love. From the red guitar leaning against the wall opposite my bed, enticing me to unzip its case once more...
Read StoryIt's a rainy evening in May. Your sister's laying in front of you in her hoodie and blanket while you're here typing at your laptop, sweating on your forehead and in other places. You're sitting here typing, thinking of what to write...
Read StoryI'm not sure how to start this. I want to start with the shivering breaths, the teary smiles, the fake laughter, the sadness creeping behind her eyes. I want to start with how she would stare and stare into nothing but oblivion...
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