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.
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
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?
I used to proud of my breast, now I hate it. I hate a lot of things; let me live through. I’m too young for what I am facing, I will take a picture of my naked self when I turn 22. Say a prayer for me or two. It is hard being a girl; I want to just be Human.