These are the tiny memories that unravel me, the ones I don’t see coming. I miss her. And suddenly my eyes start tearing up and I am grabbing fistfuls of tissue, tilting my head back. I think of all these years she’s been gone that I’ve spent dating all the wrong men, trying to make it to the next holiday or birthday with them before breaking it off, a kind of madness. But never Valentine’s Day–on which I prefer to be single, to remember the feeling of being loved unconditionally by someone truly special, as was my mother.
“Don’t be a fucking victim. You can’t be living in the age of Google and cheap internet where you can find out the resources available to you as a young African writer through the social network and other avenues, waiting for your father to make the policy or arrangements for you is immoral. In fact it is evil. It’s your job to make it.”
Yewande Omotosho, a Nigerian-Barbadian, naturalised South African Citizen, is among the four female writers who have since commenced the March-April 2013 Ebedi Residency in Iseyin, Oyo State. The Cape Town,[…]
Ikhide, Let us be clear. I was disappointed with your comments a few months ago because you apparently deliberately confused two very different issues, as a means to slander our reputation as[…]
…He was beautiful. Beautiful, not handsome. Perfectly formed. Perfect in every way. E.v.e.r.y. Not meaning in all ways, just every way that I thought possible. And in ways I did[…]