A happy African American man and woman couple in their thirties sitting at home together cuddling & laughing.

He was like clockwork. 5am he was up. Hardly a minute later, sometimes earlier. Years of discipline, he had said. I am not my body. My body us for me to control and put under my command. He nudged her awake gently and she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and got into a position she did rather more subconsciously from months of habit, kneeling with clasped hands for prayers. Continue reading


b73ec4d7e4fe825db936b19d2e4db382Another story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here.

She coughed all through the night. He drifted in and out of sleep miserably through it. Waking up when the hacking sounds got loud behind his ears. Some comforting words, a cup of water, and pulling the duvet tightly over her. It was strange and annoying that there was no medication of any sort in the house. How the last one was used up and not replaced was a mystery to him. Ok, maybe not that much of a mystery. This was not rocket science. He simply forgot, he thought. Continue reading


1399081289-alg-angry-couple-jpgAnother story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here.


It was OK that she kept late nights. In between school and modelling, which was more ushering and auditioning than actual modelling, it was inevitable. And then it was seasonal, so for days, into weeks, they saw each other more than was necessary and he knew exactly where she was every other night.

He slept irregularly, really was not a problem for him. But she worried about his eyes always glued to the computer screen. But it was his job, his passion.

She missed him. The playful, carefree him. Curious and analytic. Funny. Indulging. Now he was just Continue reading



The elevator’s metallic whining stopped as it leveled with the floor, Louis’s unconscious body on it. Tara rushed to it, pulled him off it and knelt by his side. The other prisoners joined them; a hefty beard in dirty white sokoto and buba, and a fair damsel in a flowery evening dress.

“Wake up, Louis, please,” she patted him.

Louis grunted as his eye lids parted wearily, to feed on sweaty grim looks. He sat up. He threw a questioning gaze at Tara. Was this a surprise birthday party or what?

About an hour ago, Tara’d given him a call, asking him to come for his ultimate birthday present. He’d left his friends at Club Ecstasy and sped down to her empty flat. He didn’t only love her but Continue reading


bed-black-and-white-couple-cute-Favim.com-2308841Another story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here.

“Are you still here?”

He tapped her lightly on the shoulders. She did not wake. So he tapped harder again. She did not budge. Now he turned her over her side, she talked incoherently from her sleep. He thought that would be enough to get her up so he went to adjoining room and fetched his pair of running shoes. Changed into shorts and a light shirt. She still lay there, the bed sheet half covering her nakedness.

He muttered a cuss under his breath. Continue reading

Home is Not Home

Her husband is talking fast. “Dear, you have to close your shop now, and head home.”

“Mike, what is wrong? It’s too early for…” Toyin is saying but Mike interrupts.

“I’ll hang up now. I’m at the kids’ school. I’m coming home with them. Let me meet you home!”

The beep tells her the call’s been terminated. She looks at the phone in her hand, confused; what is wrong with Michael? She presses a button to switch on the back-light. The time is 1 pm. Mike usually leaves work at 5 pm, and the kids’ school closes at 2 pm. Her thoughts are as twisted as the braids on her head. Continue reading

Rippers of Innocence

Recall a poem titled Of Monsters and Men by Roy Louis? This is the story that inspired the poem. This story was originally published on The Life Of Rhoiy.

Disclaimer: This may include some offensive/explicit words.

“This is all up to you,” The overpowering man says, with a knife to my chin. “You can relax and make this easy for yourself or you can fight and make this harder than it already is.”

I am currently stripped down to my boxer short, my bare skin fast welting from belt and knife marks. His name is Alex; a man I had met some weeks back.

Alex tightens his grip around my throat, pushing my head hard against the thin mattress. I whimper silently under his mass, wiggling my body to break free. I feel my skin crawl and my heart pound heavily as I struggle to swallow the bile rising in my throat. My eyes are filled with tears streaming down my face. Continue reading



Another story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here. Viewer’s discretion is advised.

You snored in your sleep. It kept her up at night. She read a book. Something you said you had read before and did not enjoy it very much. She adjusted the pillow under your head and your breathing stopped. But you did not know this anyway. She stopped reading, and watched you and thought that you needed a shave. Her impulse was to dab shaving cream on you right away and whip a razor out. But then she might wake you up. Twice she had done that before, once she had cut you, slight, just below your chin. You were not mad in the slightest bit; you just thought your angel had lost her invisibility. Continue reading


Another story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here.

She was unable to sleep all night. He in contrast did and rather soundly. She was miffed. How do you drop a bomb on someone and calmly go to bed like all is well with the world. Several times she wanted to wake him up, they had to talk. The air stank and it was his fault. He could not really have meant what he said, did he?

She went to check on the kids. 2.30 am. The night was quiet, her head was not. In the living room she put on the TV, there was a rerun of a popular soap on. Abstractedly, she watched and never Continue reading

Wish Me Well

Author’s Note

A Story Inspired by Timi Dakolo’s Wish Me Well Song.

The oil lamp burned low depriving Nnenna of warmth, her wiry body hidden beneath the double wrappers, her teeth moved in her mouth involuntarily.

Her son Obinna had gone to fetch firewood since the sun bade the skies goodbye. From her hut she couldn’t see anything, it was dark and she could hear the village children playing gleefully, singing songs and playing underneath the moonlight.

Children, she thought.

She tried to reach for the herbal drink Obinna had prepared before he left when she heard company. Continue reading