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Petrichor . " Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɪkɔːr/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek petra (πέτρα), meaning "stone", and īchōr (ἰχώρ), the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology" .  The smell of the earth after rain, gently watered and restored back to life. I was thirteen when I learnt that it has a name. Earth smelling so soulful that I would pinch the earth and eat it. I knew better but that was the effect the rain on earth would evoke in me. It would take me back to a blissful childhood at the playground of my childhood compound. The rain clouds would gather threatening and the dust blew in playful circles.  All the children would be present and accounted for at the painted concrete compound that doubled as carpark. Mothers would stand at the caged balconies wagging threatening fingers at children who refused to come in. We would stand on the narrow concrete playground and sing rain ...

It was the year the rains came early. It was preceded by a cough that never ceased until it deposited into the cold embrace of death. Kulu first felt it in the while sitting at the back of a taxi on a hot day like any other in Gwayumba. Both the driver and his friend sitted next to him would be dead before the rains came. She quietly prayed to God to hold on for, she wasn't sure she could take another loss. She pressed her thighs together and tried to suck in her stomach. "innalillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun ya Allah please keep this one for me" she prayed. The pain went as quickly as it came and the tears flowed freely from her eyes. As the taxi pulled up near her street, she brought out a 200 Naira note from her bag and passed it to the driver who was chatting away with his friend. "No o, its 500 Naira" "What do you mean? From Layin Kasuwa to Unguwar Rama ...how is that five hundred?"  she retorted hotly. "Pls I don't want to fight wi...

We write stories that we know. Stories about ourselves, suspended in beautifully woven-lies and coated in humour, as if to dilute the vinegar. Stories that we hope would unburden our minds and heal our scars. But that is the beauty of literature, taking the mundane, the ugly and giving it a new life, capable of bringing joy. That is how we write. Self-therapy through our re-imaginations of reality. Different renditions of the same cry, re-telling of age old atrocities, and we continue to pay respects and tribute, because we all know it take bravery to confront demons that plague a poet and manifest in words. 

Photo by: Unknown Is he celebrating you like you are him?  Not that it matters, But the daughter from my mother told me so  She say "baby love needs gratification"  Whatever that means... Is he loving you baby like you do him ?  Because life told me so I need my left and my right hearts to beat together. a centre stable Is he with you or you grasping him ?  passion with arrogance Not that it matters, but I think of such things Especially when you call me at night  I want to say "where your lover dey?"  because I know say love sabi kill person for inside i no wan make you die for man But I con talk say "shey padi boy dey scatter your brain"  You lie, tell me yes.  Make you no die for man Abeg . 

"Education is simply the sum total of experiences"

Like the trees that grow on mountains Roots, pushing through layers Formed in hardships  Unplanted but libert- ain   Like the trees that grew on mountains With only faith secure You too, will grow out of this. Growth in pains, tears to water. Will colour a land plain  Like the trees that grew on mountains The ayah . You too, will heal.