What'supReaders?

Photo by: Anjelicek on DeviantArt 2010 "Lovers by the river" You are the prayer that exceeded expectations.  The reassurance that restores my life An unknown that became my guide Soul Tears that never came to pass You're misery that never actualised  You are life, my life. To be by your side , life and death the same My beautiful hiba .

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.