‘Dear senior Tracy’: a letter to my 15-year-old self.

Senior Tracy, Do you have a moment please? I would like ten minutes of your time, if you do not mind. I understand that you are currently preparing for your regional debate finals, and so I will be brief. You leave for Warri in five days, so you have enough time to prepare. You do... Continue Reading →

There are no strangers in Abua

  “Azuanima, the kind of fear wey I feel for una that day no be small one oh”. Mama (my grandmother) said this to me on a cold evening in December, while sharpening the blade of her hoe. My siblings and I had visited her from Port Harcourt and we –alongside some of our friends... Continue Reading →

Man on the plane: a lesson on life.

Everyone has a story... something that sets him or her apart from the rest. Some wear their stories on the sleeves of their clothing, and in the brightness of their lipstick; an unapologetic desire to let the world know about the places their feet have reached. They wear their battle scars as pendants upon their... Continue Reading →


The dayI got bitten by a dog started off as any regular day that week. I had been on holiday at my Big Mummy's house, where I spent most of my weekends during the majority of my childhood. This house was my sanctuary, and housed many of my most treasured memories. It was in this... Continue Reading →


When I was four years old, I developed a strong attachment to liminal spaces. I stayed up late at night, so I could crawl underneath the wooden frame that held my mum’s large Mouka foam, whilst everyone else was asleep. At other times, I remained seated on the pavement in our veranda long after my... Continue Reading →


The armed robbers burst into our parlour through the front door; tall masked men in black clothing, brandishing knives and guns as they wriggled into the house, the same way that maggot in the boil on my left arm burst through my skin when my grandma applied palm oil to it, it’s white head twisting... Continue Reading →


I am seated on the last sofa in the second floor of Camden Job Centre’s waiting area. The blonde lady seated on the same sofa as I am is so far away from me, that I cannot touch her unless I reach sideways, with my left arm outstretched. She repeatedly mutters something in language I... Continue Reading →

Behind closed doors in Rumuigbo.

My earliest memories of my mum include; her preventing me from going out to play with the neighbors, coming home from work with meat pies and doughnuts bought from Mr. Biggs, asking for her room to be swept at least four times a day, and making sure my bright pink nursery school pinafore was always... Continue Reading →


Up ↑