Once, I saw two women bowed over the open bonnet of their hatchback like it
At that time, I was a Fellow at the Ebedi International Writer’s Residency in Iseyin,
the small finger of water poking close, as with everything subjected to rot. we sometimes
After Sage Ravenwood’s “Bookends” Here the hand that burrows deep. A son’s bruised face.
(For Amarachi; Chijioke’s sister) That flew on a warm Nigerian evening, north across the frigid
but I fear I lack the courage to accept it, I can’t look it in
The living room in CHIEF GOODTIME’S mansion in that part of town as still as