The cobwebs of deceit hang carelessly off the walls. Voices of disparage echo through the hallways, bedroom doors heaving with sighs and tears for what could have been…
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We played games with our nights and slept through our strongest moments. We aligned ourselves with herds and allowed our transportation across counties.
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I am a lady-in-waiting, waiting. And you, the Father Abraham of out time, have left me without a forwarding address or manual on how to raise your children.
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On the most judgmental stage of them all, we performed around the rules, shifted expectations and redefined the purpose of illusionists. We made magic, and fooled us all.
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The journey from where I was when I wanted to be where I am now has been long. I shall not mourn the things I left behind…
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The irony of it though, of all the things you gave me this - inhumed us you left behind is all that’s lasted. The us that we were eats me up inside like a parasitic plant growing…
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Bedroom exploding with random knickknacks that you only seem to find when you are looking for the one thing you cant have – like your youth, your sanity, your perfect ‘look at me now!’ body…
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I never did work out if there was a sewer nearby or an invisible ghost with a flatulence problem in the flat.
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I bloomed in the moonlight of your wake, I tilted towards your daylight sun, every breath of me sweeping through the wonderful country breeze. My roots drank…
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Yesterday we were performing not unlike the way we did when we first met. You reached out for your wallet as I argued that the bill should be split in half. We settled the tab but not our differences
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And when I asked what do you do when the only person who can make you smile is the one who makes you cry, you loved me too much to hang around long enough to give me an answer.
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The task of casting demons has never been easy, a chore made more complicated in that these were her demons, creatures that had morphed life for her into perpetual muddle
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This was an age of pleated blue and white check uniforms with brown moccasins and hair styles dictated by social prefects. He was 18; I was 14 going on 15.
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When the evening sun folded shades of orange and tinted yellows around the hills around our village, merry neighbours would bring adibésé along with kola nuts, garden eggs, live poultry, dried fish and blessings.
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My stomach reminded me again that skipping lunch was bad enough but turning down a perfectly good glass of wine, homemade egusi and pounded yam to sit here was just inhumane.
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You are furthest from my mind when our favourite song comes on and an Issey Miyake walks by…I do not think of you when I look in the mirror alone, without you standing behind me, holding me, saying ‘we
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praying your make up isn’t reminiscent of that terrible production of Frankenstein’s bride and you are not bursting out of your clothes like the incredible hulk
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If it makes you happy, I’ll bring gifts of my soul, for offering I’ll present you my sheathed Queendom, I’ll be your faithful concubine, bless my altar. For steadfast devotion, I’ll make oaths to
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It whizzes violently in my hand, supercharged and rearing to go. Funny word rearing, always sounds just a touch on this side of lewd.
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His tales of lust still wax my ears, there's still a little of his whispers around my nipple, a little of his intent on my navel. It's nothing like I thought it would be.
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