I wrote an article a few weeks ago as part of a six part fiction series ‘A Collection of Scars’, one of the monologues revolved around Zainab, a young woman who was unhappy in life, marriage and motherhood. Zainab was suffering from low mood, lack of motivation and low self-esteem; she diagnosed herself as depressed. When I read through the comment section on TNC where it was initially published, one thing was clear based on my interpretation of the words left below, many people interpreted suffering in different ways. (more…)

I did not see this moment coming, or perhaps I was told it was coming, but I ignored the signs and the warnings. Daniel and I met when I was four years out of university; I was a late bloomer in the love department. I had been running away from marriage. I did not understand the construct and why it was so important. I was accused of withholding my mother’s joy, ‘Ijo Ayo’ she called it. Then Daniel happened, and all hell broke loose. (more…)

When I was younger, I was told to be bold and unafraid. I was taught courage at my family altar, yet I had often lived in fear. Over the past year, my life has been defined by minutes and seconds, not hours. There have been several moments that have been milestones, and turning points. I have had several opportunities to make decisions some based on courage, others based on fear, but they were all my decisions, foolish, wise and reckless. These are the minutes;

10:02 Arnold happened. I was blindsided and ever since then my life seems like someone else’s dream. Arnold was at a ‘young entrepreneurs’ event that I attended. I was trying to grow my natural hair business and needed advice on making wise investments. Enter Arnold, an investment banker, risk taker by nature, brave bold and courageous. Almost like Joshua but lacking the anointing. He was always honest with me. Straight to the point, he said he did not mix business with pleasure. He always put desire first.


I have always loved life. I enjoy to travel and explore the unusual opportunities available in the natural world. When I was younger, my parents would bundle my sister Nkem and me in a taxi, and we would travel to Ojota motor park where we would join one of the buses going to the villages. As we grew older and my parents became wealthier, we went on luxurious buses and eventually by chauffeur driven cars.

I missed the days we went on the small buses packed like a tin of sardines. There was always a stench that filled the air. There was a mixture of sweat, food and at certain times, I was sure I smelled urine. On those journeys, we would put our hands out of the windows to feel the fresh air. We would beg mother for her last fifty Naira note so we could buy some roasted Ube Pears selling by the roadside. I was always more keen to eat fruits when trapped on those long journeys. However, when wealth came, the trips were never the same. We never travelled like locals, the mobile police that escorted the cars would never let us stop, but I could still take photos via the tinted mirrors. By the time, I completed my university degree; I had not travelled by road in years. ‘The roads are not safe’; father would lament.