THE CONVOY

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...