We let silence speak the words our mouth cannot; we let it tell the tales of her pleas and my forgiveness. Mayme might have been my citizenship insurance at first, but now, she is my wife, the woman I love.

Winner of the Afritondo Short Story Prize 2020.

A few months back, it would have been a death sentence just to walk these roads—gun or no gun. The war seemed to be truly at its end, and I was on the right side of that end.

You had gone to pick up the ornaments and decorations for your photographs and the two beautiful matching pyjamas you had ordered for yourself and him.

She was between the devil and the deep blue sea. The deep blue sea that led to Europe was better than the devil at home.

Courage was foreign to me. It was something I couldn’t grab and make mine. But not that Tuesday.

Monde was left to race against the sun, for the moment it set, the night entertained the dead.

ChiUkwu is called ChiUkwu for a reason. He is the only god with “ukwu” attached to his name. The Great. The Supreme. And what does a man so weak that the rains had beaten the melanin off him know about greatness?

They preach prosperity year in, year out, and during election tell you not to vote for a Muslim if you are a Christian. Or not vote for a Christian if you are a Muslim. Election is next year, you will see with your two eyes. That is if you do not leave the country oh. Anyway, you can watch from over there in the abroad.

Ice got him to stop talking

But your father wasn’t always like this. Before your birth, he was one of the sweetest men I had known.

I am not sure he can hear me above all the noise: the honks of vehicles, the murmur of roadside traders, the barbershop loudspeaker, the screams of the conductors.

This book blends the fabrics of living the American dream, African (Ibibio) spirituality, and modern Nigerian reality to create a novel that captivates and leaves a lasting impression long after the final page.

Before you were born, your mother had had three miscarriages and two dead children: one was a stillbirth and the other lived for only one year.

When she left my house that Sunday, smiling and dressed in my favourite white dress, my strawberry lipgloss shining on her lips, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a beaded purse dangling at her shoulder, I hugged her and told her to be back before six.

You curl up on the bed trying hard to shut out the memory. When you close your eyes, you still see him glaring at you with bloodshot eyes; you can even perceive the marijuana stench that he wears like perfume.

There was only so much time before everyone else knew what she knew about bodies: they hide nothing and betray everything.

Your dermatologist, Dr Patik, says it’d get better, but there is really no cure. You’re a wilting tree.

He cooed over our newborn and gently stroked his cheek, smiling in unabashed adoration.