Christmas in the Ghetto.
As usual, the sizzling, frying, juicing, roasting, pounding, and boiling begin two days before the actual day—though in some homes, it starts two or three weeks, even months, beforehand. The chin-chin is deep-fried and hidden; a home-reared flock of
Reimagining Obit.
Chang elegizes every part of herself that once lived in a book like Gray’s epitaph, and I cannot fault her for that. It is better to tell your story yourself than to have a stranger sum it up in few words that fall short of what is
Beyond Baba Blue.
On Sundays, when Chika would crawl under the heavy steps at the parish, squinting to keep cement crumbs from falling into her eyes as she squeezed through, the sounds outside would blur into nothingness
Chiaroscuro of a Falling Eagle.
Stroke by stroke, the canvas comes to life. The Eagle free-falls, untethered, from the sky. This is metaphor for my country plummeting a hundred feet down every four to eight years as its
The Last Breath
We moved like a river of broken dreams across the scorched earth, thousands of us fleeing the eastern borders of our homeland. Once proud citizens of Bermuda, now reduced to wanderers in our own country.
Auntie Sister.
I’ve come bearing bad news. When I arrived at the front door, I wanted to lift my skirt, turn away, run into the street, and never come back. However, I’d already made it this far; there was no
Anukara: the Forsaken.
I was among the 27 Archaeology students from the University of Ibadan assigned to an excavation at Obong Itoro in Calabar State, Nigeria, as a prerequisite for our final-year project.
Goodnight Gotham.
By the borough, I nestle my palms around your neck — not a funeral, yet your eyes glaze from inside your boxed head / We should leave / We could leave yet your shoulders chitter in…
Ẹlẹda mi, Modúpé.
When I rise, I must thank my òrí. I thank my òrí, my head, for keeping me alive, for waking me up, for standing by me. When bad people from my dreams called my name, it’s my òrí, my head,
