Heartsong

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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”

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Homecoming.

A story of second chances and finding home at last.

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THE PRESENT

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.”

Licorice.

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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.
Welcome.