The Art of the Art.

It would be nice for parents to allow their children to try things out before it becomes too late. Despite the Nigerian ‘, My child will be the one to bury me and not vice versa’, but children still die before their parents with little or nothing to show for being alive, to show they were here.

Twenty Miles of Bad Road.

she made us walk with no shoes on twenty miles of bad road to church and back, the priest one day tied me to a pole, I was twelve then and all the other church members will circle around and make Yoruba chants and sprinkle water

Family is trash and a bottle of water.

When she opened her legs, I knew it was happening, her breast was like hot chocolates drank in a rush, one that you hope doesn’t finish- she was smooth, smoother than most girls I have met, she said she wanted more and I was ready. I crave Lagos, like vagina or vodka, a way that should be explorative, one that should satisfy me, I want to walk by the beach with my hand in my hair, pulling through every stride, I  crave Lagos like the local jollof rice my grandma use to make, she uses local Maggi and lots of onions and dry fish, the palm oil had a different aroma, my grandma was a genius in the kitchen, why do people get old?

Spoon fed.

Its pathetic to see that African parents shape children like themselves, I will like to call it modern slavery.


The world have forces, if you listened enough, you can hear spirits sing, cats talk and you could also summon dead people or the spirit of the world if you are about it, sometimes I look too hard at a black and white photo of my dad on my work table, it will smile and float, I haven’t being able to communicate with him as I did much younger, but I will, when my mind is in the right place, he knows I smoke and fuck now, but I know he would want me to tell him.