I find succor in my reflection on Murtala’s face. Why can’t I confide in it? Is it not family now?
I find succor in my reflection on Murtala’s face. Why can’t I confide in it? Is it not family now?
Familiar slogans clog social media pipelines. The red river swells with braids undone.
The way she lay there whenever I climbed on top of her, like a dead body, sapped all my desire.
Harding sees colonialism everywhere, and not as a passive-something. It is an active element for him—like a rumour, but potent enough with treachery—even where it is obviously not.
When he realised I was one of the students who were still confined to typewriters, he decided to spend weekends teaching me how to use computers properly to prevent me from destroying all the computers at the institute.
I had an opportunity to try migrating without risking everything, a chance to make a mistake and fix it if I had to.
You are careful not to build castles on her words like the fool in your Sunday school lesson who built his house on sand.
The language of love is cliched. The language of marriage, the institution of love, is also cliched.
Sizwe winced, almost as if the woman’s words had struck him. In some ways, they had. But, instead of causing him physical pain, they opened wounds he had been trying hard to stitch…
