She preferred to write an email with her story because – in her own words – she has an “image” of me and she doesn’t want to “spoil the romance” she has with me in her head. She says …
Her nearest and dearest call her Keke. The sound a creaky door makes. It’s the sound of a brittle, rare baby bird in a thicket, waiting for mommy bird to get back from the cloud and feed it. Keke …
They met in the corridors of the university. He was like a tanker rolling towards her; his shoulders filled the corridor, his very presence blocking her way. He towered over her like a watchtower. He seemed to radiate magnetism, …
She waited alone for her Uber outside the gate of one of the clustered grey-looking apartments in South B. It was past midnight and the street was forlorn and deserted. A stray mangy dog with old, grey fur stopped …
She often goes to a spa over the weekend for a body scrub and an aromatherapy massage, after which she sits in the garden and drinks a glass of tonic water with a slice of lemon or herbal tea …
