I remember my first bachelor hole; a bed-sit. A two-seater couch. Baby Meko. A “fridgerette” that didn’t go above my knees. A bed. A small Samsung TV set. A worn doormat. Outside the window, maize plants craned their necks …
The guy I’m looking for didn’t oil his elbows this morning. What kind of a man oils his elbows anyways? He sprayed some deo on, slapped some lotion on his face, slipped into jeans, canvas shoes and a t-shirt …
The soundtrack of my relationship with my father has always been silence. It filled every crack and cranny, sipped in and cemented our interaction like melted cheese. He was always there without being there. We saw him. Felt him. …
Junot is the shit. And not just because he earned a Pulitzer for his first book – The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – which I’m currently reading, but because he writes sentences …
In class. Looking at bent heads and scratching pens, enraptured by the sudden change in mood from slackened reading to full blown revision. My desk mate has got about five books piled up on his locker. One hand is …
The first tenet you have to embrace is that motherhood isn’t about your baby. It’s about you. Babies are just collateral damage. Never mind them. The second is that you don’t have to be married to be a mother. …