Where? Are we not all funny, Dressed as professors, yet looking like zombies? This thing we call a country—what is it, sef? A personal shelf, a donkey, or both? What is this? A note to self, or am I an endangered specie? Why do we gawk, gormless...
I haven’t come this far to live in Nigeria’s hell, there is a bat whistling in my face, there oodles of stench holding form in poverty, I am unpainted. My luxury items are my thoughts as I bend my back to see the sky. I wonder what being...
