STICKY NOTES
We read the sticky notes on her wall today, “What separation technique is used To separate pain from life?” “How does a fish who lost its gills survive? Does it befriend the tides or surrender to The fangs of the waters?” “As a man releases…
WHY YOUR WRITER FRIEND IS WEIRD
Creatives are like walking (living) petrol tankers. The difference is that no one writes on our foreheads, “Highly inflammable. Highly explosive. No smoking”. When a creative person passes by fire (tough times) and there are visible sparks, everyone thinks “isn’t he such a wonderful firework?”…
The “Maybe” of Writers and Their Art
Maybe writers don’t write at night just to enjoy the silence and how it lets thoughts flow unhindered and allows imaginations to run wild without fear of being hunted down and tamed by society. Maybe writers crawl the night to know why the stars never…
Musings, Monologues & Madness
I we do not know how many calabashes of fermented incantations the gods must drink to get drunk, but we know that wisdom is not something the gods give in exchange for kola nuts! sometimes he melts it into verses & allows it to drip…
The Sun That Would Not Rise In The East
The day Akanji hosted death, the crown exhaled in relieve as it watched a hundred and one brittle-hearted fellows adorned with mournful grins, troop to his festive funeral They said: “He’s dead! The man who defaced the wall of humanity with his uncommon shade of…
All The Madness Around Here
Whether or not Charly Boy was born with a placard in his hand, I know not, But his words: “Our mumu don do” must not be left to burn in the fireplace of sentiments Because medicine for many of the ailments that plague our society,…
Broken Ships
The first time Vivy met him, she had just left the library and was cycling to her hostel that evening. She was wearing a pair of blue shorts, a cream T-shirt and a face cap to match. With her tablet in a backpack strapped to…
Jerome
Those who lag behind in life’s race, are they God’s specimens to the experimental end of eliciting our gratitude?
Memories, the clay with which we hold our demons.
On cool evenings like this, when my fingers hurt and my palms get really pale, I crawl into my bed, wrap myself away and listen to Don Williams. Then I wonder why death lets us sip from a glass of fine wine, only to tickle our throats till we spill the wine to its very last droplet.
A Broken Wrung On The Ladder Of Memories
On the ladder of memories, it was not the way the night stretches a blanket of darkness across the sky that endeared it to me. My best friend in the corpers’ lodge; Segun, thought I had cuddled the moon under the canopy of glittering stars…
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