THE CONVOY

​ THAT CAMERA? SELL IT!      Sacrifices are bound to occur and each step of it is accompanied by loss. I’ve lost my life savings to investing in a future I cannot and will no longer see. The new camera that I purchased with money from countless nights of sleeping on an empty stomach was also carried away in that same tornado of loss. My instinct wants me to jump in front of that wobbly-moving  keke  but Jade’s swift hands drag me back.     “Are you mad?”     Her words smack me across the face and like cold water being dumped over me, I realize what I’d tried to do.     “I'm sorry,” I mutter, looking down to avoid the judging stares of people.     “You’re not allowed to die yet  oh , Amina. Have you forgotten that my rent is part of that money? If you die now, how will you get the money back?”     Let’s take a few steps back to the beginning of my st...

​ WITH FEAR, FOR HOPE 1. THE BEGINNING. Fear. That was my major watchword for living life. I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to embrace it, I grew. I grew into fear and its feeble yet sturdy hands wrapped around me reassuringly. With every step that I took, it morphed gigantically and whenever I looked over my shoulders, it was my shadow. “Omokolapo!” My mother yelled. Startled, the ceramic bowl in my hands dropped to the floor and shattered into tiny pieces.  “Ah ah.” She came tumbling into the kitchen wondering what was going on. Mother was so shaken that all she needed was a single tilt to fall over her face. “What happened?” “Nothing, ma. It was the way you called me, ma.” Still heaving, she rolled her eyes, “Was that why you broke a plate? Why do you always get startled, Omokolapo? Are you sure you are okay?” I knew the question didn’t mean she truly wanted to know if I was faring well or not. The required answer was to apologize and so did I. “Sorry, Mama.” “I don’t kn...

​ TROUBLE ON WALNUT STREET      It  was late at night, as usual, Zen just closed her store and was on her way home. Walking briskly so she could meet Ms.  Jane, her neighbor. It was their usual Saturday night ritual, they drink wine and go over various books. She felt like sharing this magnetic pull with the book in her arms with Jane. Taking the left turn, a cold feeling made her shiver, she brushed the feeling aside and continued. Just last week they had been reading a book on ghosts. Not just normal ghosts but dead ghosts. According to the book, dead ghosts were calm, an almost non-existent form of ghosts. They only haunted people who have uncertainty under their collars. They felt cold like other ghosts but took their captives on strange journeys. The past, subconscious, the future, or what-was-meant-to-be. Each dead ghost represented a family member from one side or the other. It could be one dead before the vessel’s existence or one given birth to aft...

​ CHRISTMAS WAHALA Papa has done it again. I hate this annual cycle that keeps recurring for over fifteen years of my awareness. Why do we have to rush against the hustle and bustle of the town just a few hours before Christmas? Everyone is rushing to kill their chicken, grind their pepper, buy fried rice ingredients and so many other last minutes preparation. We have still not gotten drinks and that’s the major part of all this I hate the most because Papa doesn’t drink regular Maltina. We had to search the ends of the market and every other corner for Malta Guinness. And speaking from experience, I know all depots and stores we will visit will announce to us that they’ve run out and also berate us for not buying before now. They should be used to seeing our faces by then if only the attendants worked long term.  Mama wanted to try out the new meat seller that everyone made a rave about this year. She walked briskly ahead while I grabbed the black  Bagco  sack in my hand...

​ I think this is the first time of addressing my readers. I am really grateful for the clicks and interest in this hobby of mine.  At the beginning of this year, I promised myself I was going to make a post once every month. We started well, but then, June happened and I slipped. Since then, I lost all interest. A day ago, I thought to myself to make one last post this year and yes, I will! Once again, I do not take your love for granted and this is to many more writing pieces from me! Thanks for being part of this convoy of mine! With love,  Ikeolu’

I stroll the paths through which I used to play as a kid, they no longer smelt of baby powder and sweets. Instead, the grasses have gotten so full and I wondered if I missed my way. Standing outside the house, I look in awe at the emptiness on the street. These places were always filled with kids, balls, and noises. But now, the echo of a pin drop will be as loud as barrels falling on cold tar road. There is a group page where they all meet and on par, I joined. It was all empty except for threads of old news, spam, and awoof . At times, they discuss a thing or two, chattering happily, I guess. Most were gossips and I didn't take interest in that. Instead, I scroll through their pictures and all I see are happy smiles on empty faces. My name was mentioned a few times, I could have answered but the conversation was always long over before I found it. And even then, I have no desire to. Stepping outside, I hear questions, "where have you been?", " you just ...

When they have questions, people ask a lot of, "why not do this?", "what are you waiting for?" No one cares to know what you actually want.                            ... This goes on and on. I can feel my brain about to explode in discomfort. Yes, I know I have the 'potential,' but I do not have an interest. Questions I have to ask are, "why do you dismiss my feelings?", " why do you ignore that my desire truly matters?" The answer I feel is that you'd rather I drown in discomfort as long as I did what you wanted. You keep imposing your beliefs and invalidating my wants, my pains, my dreams. And here I am again, working under duress from the pressure of what you think is best for me. I seal my lips, I do not fight, I cower, I suffer in silence, I do not contest. After which, you smile, you radiate, you boast of pride you have of me.

For every evil you do, it's an eye for an eye For every shortcoming you make, it's a tooth for a tooth Now there are no more eyes and far lesser teeth to take Do you disagree?  Why then do we live and not see the evil that lies in our hearts and minds? Why then is the truth bitter for us to chew?

UNITY, THEY SAY. Did I not journey through foes I can’t unsee? Swimming across discord, a great sea Did I not listen to the sounds of war? Sorrow streaming deep against my oar Did I not lay my eyes down as children starved? Saying this, their sight in my mind remains carved  Did I not feel the cries of people deep in my bones? Same reason I ignore the sound of battle horns Did I not smell decaying corpses as I fled? Ghostly faces, lifeless pictures inscribed in my head Did I not taste the bitter tears? As they trickled down, peeling my fears Do I not now cherish the days of harmony? With family, days as sweet as honey Gidi gidi bụ ugwu – unity is strength  Whispers my soul as I close my eyes in death

I AM HURT I must admit, I am hurt Like a little bird, I'd rather not tut But I guess it's the symbol you hold I feel it deep in my neck, like a stuck stalk If pain wasn't a solid factor, I'd rather not talk I am not that alive neither do I exude bravery Now, I am scared or would I say wary? That you have now become the bullies that you preach against.

FREEDOM? Two years before, I decided to take the bold step. I no longer wanted to pocket my feelings and my hurt. I freed them, let them fly. Every step I took was full of determination, rage, and courage. Little did I know that what life has for me was far from the dreams I had for myself. Now, I sit in this room full of lights that blinded my sight. The walls were plain, old, and imprinted with sadness. The pipes that carry used water above the ceiling creaked, probably from tiredness. The clanging of the doors heightened my senses. There was no window but it wasn’t stuffy. I gripped tightly on my warm orange jumpsuit that was beginning to fade. I could hear movements of voices, sometimes they went with a swoosh, other times they crept quietly into my head.  I begged the grounds to pave way and let me go but underneath it were humans in warm orange that were either cold-blooded criminals or hopeless petty thieves.

    It was one night, as always, nights when I surf the internet looking for opportunities locked in somewhere. I wouldn’t say I knew what I was looking for but at least I had an idea. If it wasn’t a scholarship option to leave the shores of this land, it was an opening to submit my works and at least make money even if it was crumbs. On those nights, if I didn’t reach a dead end, it was either I got carried away by the ever succumbing hands of sleep or worse, the exhaustion of my Internet subscription.     It was that night I met Kobiowu, or so he called himself. I had found a website where my qualifications were required. I had applied and I had received an email instantly. Thinking it was an acceptable email, I practically jumped to my email inbox. Now that I think about it, it felt more of a dubious approach. He called himself Kobiowu, writer, editor, publisher, blah blah. My joy knew no bounds, I had met a well-connected and high-placed creative, what more could...

INSOMNIA Laying my head to rest as always I say that one line prayer as I was taught to Struggling to push my thoughts aside I remain choked by the voices in my head The voices telling me to chill, The ones whispering and The voices that stay barking  Jumping up to chug down a glass of milk It calms the nerves they say Swallowing repeatedly to ease the bile behind my throat I wrap my sheets up my neck, to find some solace? Tossing to the silence that keeps my ears tingling  I stare at the now spirally ceiling as I sink deep into my worries

MY LETTER TO YOU. If you ask me what I want? I won’t say I don’t know. Of course, I do. I want a lot of things. I have my life sorted and my goals all labeled out. I do know what I want. But if you throw that question at me right now, I’ll pause then say I just want an intense hug. An intense hug for all my worries to go away, an intense hug to release my shoulders from the burden and tension of feeling underachieved, an intense hug just for reassurance, a hug just for the fun of it.  Maybe after that, I can now list out all my wants, my desires, my retrospect. Maybe I’ll rant about how I just want to sleep and wake up fully made, rant about how I badly want to fulfill a lot and I feel there’s no time but there’s still a lot of time. And I don’t want you to tell me it’ll be fine. That’s a phrase I use all the time. It has become more of a recitation than embodiment of hope it should be. But I’ll very much appreciate if you just hold my hands and kiss the worries off my brows. Movin...

As I look out the window, sound of cheers deafen my ears The neighbours  just got a puppy I slipped back into the cold bleak feel of my room Putting my head to bed, Stronger than a giant's grip is the tightness on my chest A bit relaxed, I begin to reflect, Why was Cinderella’s shoes made of glass and mine, pure leather? It was Sharon’s birthday, her gown looking so blue in contrast to my bright yellow I remember as I bury it in cool brown mud On the graduating podium, hundreds of laurel round my neck  Still can't feel the happiness that radiates from empty necks It's a wedding ceremony, humans seated in couples but I hold on tight to that empty chair beside I long to imitate the little kid's smile across the road all because mine doesn't feel right I've got a mansion but old Billy's treehouse is all I desire The sun licks up puddles but in forlorn, it abandons my wet eyes Pacing round my driveway, I desire the freedom of little kids on shiny little bikes I ...

   “Morenikeji!”      My mother’s baritone voice echoed through the walls of our incredibly large hallway. No, the house wasn’t a big one, just badly shaped with the plan drawn by an half-baked draftsman that was Papa's friend. I remember how I lurk in the shadows whenever I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Mama knew to find me there. “I knew you would be here ohh. Look at you, acting like a big baby. You’ve still not changed.”     I ignored her and just stared at her badly coloured skin, blemished by dangerous chemicals she called body cream. “Mama. When did you start bleaching? It is bad for your health ohh”, I whispered, “Cancer.” ‘Cancer ko. My dear, stop worrying. Everybody’s getting light-skinned these days. You better adjust and let me get you a very nice one for your skin. Dark child like your Papa. Before you divert my attention, you know why I am here oh.”      I didn’t reply and I could sense her temporary calmness seeping ...

Dakore was the friendliest being on earth. She was the only one that spoke to me that year. Our eyes collided while I was reading all alone in the library that evening. She looked at me, turned her eyes sideways and continued with what she was doing. I made sure I didn’t look in that direction till I left. Little did I know, outside the library stood this same tall girl with chubby cheeks and her smile was like heaven opened revealing badly arranged but extremely white dentition. She waved and I moved towards her.                “I am Dakore. You?”      This what was started a friendship that blossomed so hard, our families became acquainted. We went on vacations, occasions and practically lived together. As close as we were, I never knew my best friend was dying. Her family didn’t. No one did.       On that particular harmattan period, exactly three years since we’ve met, I walked into Dakore's room to find her lying...