I am running between meetings at the moment but wanted to send you a quick update: I'm going to be in Support! What's more, this beautiful story is written by Troy Hunter, supported by the BFI,

Barefoot and trusting, I crossed the threshold
Respecting holy lines drawn between Moses, the burning bush and the scorching heat of an early Ibadan Sunday afternoon

I saw my father in his chair; rocking back and forth as he absent mindedly rubbed at his knuckles.
That familiar view of the after effects of a tough-love exchange. You’ve got to go there to come back is what my grandmother said

They walk in here, eyes filled with promise, feet heavy with responsibility and their hearts, carrying the future. Regardless the wedding vows, it’s all the same thing…

Sticky on me like grimey sweat made dry after a long walk through Balogun market. Clingy like the gung at the bottom of my dunlop that I can never get off. If only I could take you off and…

In consecutive fleeting moments, you made me feel like I am
You'd hold me and I would be an extension of your arm
You’d look at me fixated, I help you focus

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…

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. 

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…