Dear Timi, I’ve spent months stuck on thoughts about us and how things ended. Don't think I can't move past you. I can. It's just that I was dumbfounded by how our four-year relationship ended in an instant. I didn't see any warning signs. No flashes of red. No bumps, Timi! You just dumped the bomb on me and watched it tear me apart. So, it took me into my enclaves. You know how I love overthinking things? That's been me these past months. And someone may ask, to what end? But when our love story...

Except I’m not even your shadow because I don’t walk closely with you. I am rather that lump of flesh you threw to the corner of your life where you dump things condemned to death — but I’m a thorn in your flesh because I have refused to die, of course, against my wish.I would rather be in the trashcan than here: A big stain on your white that you try so hard to hide but cannot. And since you cannot hide it, you have chosen to hate it and pour out all the plague your malicious heart can cook.But...

After weeks in Lagos, my mum knew more about Lagos than I’ve known in my twenty-plus years of living here. So, you can guess that my mum was a social butterfly. She had made friends with a few neighbours, and one of them, Nifemi, had invited her to a wedding.“E woh, it’s my cousin’s wedding. Food go surplus, wallahi.”My mum’s ears always stood and opened up like a gateway whenever she heard food and party together. It’s not because she is a scavenger, but my mum loves food. Then, she looooooovee...

He smiled like he had forgotten how pain felt, but I knew behind every creek in his smile were layers of pain. From the moment his foot hit planet Earth, a full chapter unfolded–one no one ever wishes were his. But life’s no bed of roses, and we never get to always choose our stories, and for Abas, such was his story.Abas sat, curled on a bench with a bag of water by his side. He wore a faded blue ‘money grows like grass’ shirt and shorts that had lost their elasticity. His feet were bare as you...

It wasn’t the blank space you left on the page; it was the words you scribbled that kept me fascinated. I spent days trying to decipher it, but I gave up on the thirty-first day. By then, you became an obsession; the longing to understand you. My feelings were like mismatched socks in a worn-out boot that ran up to my knees–They were too hidden, I didn’t notice them.Then one day, the boot broke and it spilled, and like a flood of emotions, I realized all these while, it wasn’t your scribbles tha...