Holding Hope

1557667869556Oche notices the brown cockroach the moment he opens his eyes, groggily rubbing the crust from them.

He closes his bleary eyes again and when he opens them, there are two cockroaches now, brown skin glistening, antennas waving at him.

He surveys the narrow confines of the room, eyes narrowing in distaste at the walls, stained a grimy black, by substances- possibly body fluids- he’d rather not think about. Continue reading “Holding Hope”




I) Past.

History smells like your mother’s Sunday George, slightly musky, replete with the scent of mothballs and infrequent use.

It looks like you watching your mother tie her ichafu as she prepares to go for the town meeting and your father, waits impatiently downstairs, feet tapping out a staccato beat on the terrazzo floor.

It feels like the shiny ends of your mother’s wrapper in your hand as you tug on it, begging her to let you follow her to the meeting and she laughingly shakes her head.

No, Nne’m. Not this time.  Meetings are not meant for small girls. One day, when you’re a woman, you’ll attend. Continue reading “Photographs”

A Christmas Miracle


Christmas is the worst season of the year for you and Ife knows this, knows too well that some wounds are better left unopened.

This is why she doesn’t quibble when you cancel all Christmas festivity in your house year after year.

How can there be festivity with just the two of you, two familiar strangers who share the flat that  was once a home where the happy laughter of a vivacious young boy echoed through the walls.

Adedotun Samuel Badmus.2002-2007.

Beloved Son.

These are the words on the gravestone you visit every other day of the week, almost religiously, bringing his most cherished possession, the toy soldier set you bought him the Christmas before his death and arranging it on the soft grass around the grave. Continue reading “A Christmas Miracle”



Moyin sighs wearily as she climbs up the flight of stairs to her third floor apartment.
It’s Valentine’s day and the air is suffused with romance; from loved up couples to romantic jingles everywhere. Moyin is exhausted after a long day at work and her feet are killing her. She is definitely not feeling the romantic vibe the rest of New York is feeling.
She would have taken the elevator but it has been faulty since yesterday’s power surge.
She hears the loud music blaring before she ascends the final flight of stairs.
She sighs,irritated already.
Dozie and his music.
He plays music all the damn time,she grouses.

Still annoyed, she  enters the flat slamming the door loudly.
The music continues playing.
She hisses,a drawn out sound.
She collapses on the sofa and pulls her shoes off her aching feet.Curse the person who invented stilletos.
Dozie finally emerges from the kitchen,whistling to the song playing.
He has a goofy grin on his face and he is holding a bottle of her good red wine,the ones that cost 50 bucks per bottle. Continue reading “Heartsong”


A story of second chances and finding home at last.



Lagos had not changed much in the seven years she had been away. The yellow and black “danfo” buses still populated the roads, with conductors swaying from the open doorways. There were even new modern red and blue buses, those Ureh had called BRT in one of their weekly conversations over the phone when she was still in the US.

Nkem had listened to Ureh’s never-ending gist, throwing in the occasional “hmm” and “ehn” of someone pretending to be interested. Nkem “hmmed” when Ureh informed her that one of their neighbours had thrown his wife out, she even added an “ehn” when Ureh added with some relish that he had kicked her belongings into the gutter abutting his compound.

Nkem had pretended to listen while she itched to ask the only question important to her now. Continue reading “Homecoming.”



Your mother does not smile the first time she meets me. She looks me over disdainfully like something fit to be scraped off her shoe on the sidewalk.
Your father smiles broadly and envelopes me in a warm hug, perhaps to make up somehow for your mother’s hostility.
Your mother doesn’t like me.
It is clear from her cold glares during dinner and her monotonous response to my attempts to striking up conversation with her afterwards. Continue reading “Licorice.”

The Beginning.

The girl had always loved the written word; to read it,be immersed in its full glory.
She travelled the world from the comfort of her bed and fought great wars in faraway places, all between the pages of a book.
The writing came naturally as an offshoot of the reading.
Day after day,night after night she wrote. On bits of paper,in random notes,in classes,in buses,she wrote.
The blog came next, an offshoot of that writing.
Welcome to her niche,this comfortable world of words.
Take a deep breath and begin this journey with her.