Friday Fiction-Dear Itohan.

My dearest sister,
I can hear your laughter in my mind as I write this, I can see you gently wrinkling your nose as you remind me that you are my only sister, just before you ask what I have done wrong or if I want money. I wish I could hug you now, even if you would wiggle your shoulders out of my grip and mutter in your froggy voice about my softness. Continue reading →

Friday Fiction- Child of the Wind

My father married seven wives, one for each day of the week he liked to say. He would boast about how he controlled seven women when most men couldn’t even handle one, between gulps of Star lager he would compare himself with King Solomon and declare himself the son of thunder and lightning. He always had a bottle of Star by his side and a stick of cigarette in between his fingers, when I light a cigarette today it is my father’s face that makes me smile.

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The road.

​This time last year, I was in my hometown for my grandmother’s burial. I wrote this on Facebook on this day last year.
It’s exactly 1.19 kilometres from my mother’s house to my father’s and it took me 24 minutes to walk that distance this morning, I must have stopped to greet a dozen people, including a man whose name is Stone whose senses are a wee bit scattered. I remember joyfully walking that distance with my mother and brothers on our way to see Mama Christiana and the other Umuorue people. We loved walking because only then could we see Mimosa pudica and touch its leaves, we would watch with glee and fascination as the leaves wilted and “resurrected” after a few minutes, at that time we called it touch and die. 

We’d greet everyone we met unlike in Lagos where we only greeted people we knew, in the village you might ignore an unknown face and he’d turn out to be your great grandmother’s uncle’s best friend’s son or simply your grandmother’s only sister (this actually happened). 

  The landmarks that shaped my memories are almost all gone; at Ama Ehuma used to be a big tree, it was very wide and very tall. One Christmas, the Christians cut it down because it was the home of the spirits- like the spirits cannot find another home. Today you’ll find a rusting sign on that spot- “Jesus is Lord over Umunanwiri Village”, maybe the spirits live in the sign now…. who knows? 

  Instead of the dusty road of my childhood is a tarred road courtesy of a certain Hon Emeka Ihediora who did for us what many promised (including a former deputy governor from my town) us but could not do. My children will walk that road with me and won’t need to cover their noses when cars approach.

 Like my mother showed me, I’d show them the beautiful sunflowers that line that road, we’d touch the mimosa leaves and watch them wilt and resurrect, we’d greet everyone we see and I’d tell them about the people who’d walked the paths before them, tell them the stories of their mother’s people, their myths and fables. Unfortunately I can’t show them the wild pea that my Papa Vincent had planted for me just because I’d liked the flowers, maybe I’d plant it for them. Do you know where I can get the seeds?

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.
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Finding my Rainbow

In the biblical book of Genesis, God told a certain man named Noah to build an ark because he was going to destroy the inhabitants of the world by a flood. We all know how the story went, how he gathered all the animals in pairs (even mosquitoes, big mistake Ogbuefi Noah) and the inhabitants of this world met their end in a watery grave.

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