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…

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

It whizzes violently in my hand, supercharged and rearing to go. Funny word rearing, always sounds just a touch on this side of lewd.

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.

What if hope were an inanimate object? A blanket, a door, a spoon, maybe a boomerang that occasionally gets lost but always returns to sender. How often would you want it, use it, keep it, loose it?

Desire will chase me with sticks and stones that could break me; Ambition will tag me looser and wake me. Together they make a great team; they have treacherously laid their nest in me…

The music comes on and I shut you all out, I dance not for show but for connection with me. The me that I only allow conversations with when I am sufficiently lulled by the call of words and the beat of

I’m hungry with an unsheathing appetite for things I’ve never tasted; victory, fulfilment, contentment. There is a chilling cloud that follows me without invitation. A cloud which on occasion

Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head. So I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name, like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables

I looked up to my favourite roof in the world and though tonight it carried less stars and more clouds than usual, it was still spectacular. He was with me.

she walked in deafened by her own beating heart, ignoring the locomotive train bells ringing in her head, she stepped over the threshold, and shed her blanket of cotton wool mama’s love gave her.

There was an island in those eyes, a little fortress of his own, there was something soothing about those rich pools and I either gazed or fell asleep because the next time I looked into those eyes