Under Pressure.

I do not know now where I got the impression from, that Lawanson market was the market with highest priced goods in the whole of Surulere and Idi-Araba market which is barely 500meters away was the cheapest. I think the women who own stalls in the market are more serious than those in other markets with a wider variety of goods and that is why this morning, I took my body to Lawanson to buy the plantains and vegetables I needed to make the meal my spirit had been craving for nearly a month.

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Beneath the Iroko

I’m watching cars snarl and drivers curse at Lawanson bus stop while I’m getting series loaded into my Iroko TV app. I’m the last customer of the day, well not a customer- I have an active subscription and it means Success the agent, will get no commission from me.

I am not Wife Material… And It’s ok.

This post has been sitting pretty in my drafts since June 30th, I wrote it at a time I found myself writing about marriage a whole lot. I decided to shelve it until another time and I guess that time is now…

 

Recently, I was having a conversation with a much older man about marriage and a woman’s place in the home. If you know me well- or at least read my blog regularly, you’d know that I do not believe in having specific gender roles in a marriage.

The Nightshift

I was trying to rush down my breakfast because I nearly late for work, when my brother came to stand beside me with a song I couldn’t make out, playing on his phone.

“Do you know I’m listening to the original version of Easy,” he said. “Lionel Richie wasn’t the original singer.”

A roomful of books.

On this day nineteen years ago, my dad and I boarded a bus headed for Abuja that would follow the Jebba-Bida-Minna-Suleja route. I was going to Bida for the first time, Dedem Okey brought my admission letter the previous week and automatically cancelled the preparations we were making towards my accepting the admission at Lagos State Model College Badore.

Where to go?

It was raining when I made the sign of the cross over her corpse before shutting the front door, I sprinted out of the compound and turned left towards Glover. The tiny beads of water from heaven hitting every exposed inch of my body and turning my glasses from clarifier of vision to an unnecessary amalgamation of plastic across my face, I took it off my face and tucked it into my jeans pocket.

A Page of Memories.

Now that being with you can only be memory, perhaps I shall write about you and if the burden of inhibition will lift, and if the shyness bred into me by centuries of women who never spoke their hearts truths, fades into the remnants of a handful of dust after the wind’s careless toss. I will attempt to pin the dazzling, fleeting dream that was us, on paper. All I want to do in this minute that seems empty, is to step behind my eyelids and glide into the field of memories where your smile is a thing I can touch and the faint remains of your favourite brand of whiskey linger on your tongue when I tilt my head to taste it- just before dawn.

Beyond the fruits.

Many Nigerian women posted names of certain fruits on their facebook timelines yesterday, this was done to raise awareness about breast cancer. I decided to write a little bit about the menace on the blog. 

Way Forward.

Hiya,

I haven’t been taking this blog seriously this year, I wish I knew why though.

Seeds of kindness.

My parents never bought sweets for us when we were little children or even now. If you found us with a sweet in our fingers or mouth, it was definitely bought by one of our very many uncles and aunties.