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Love Drops

“…and of these three…Love”



I’m at one bus stop in Lagos; along Ikorodu Road to be exact. The clock on my dashboard shows 6:09. There’s a spot of traffic, even though it’s so early. I resist the urge to slam a tired fist into the steering wheel and instead, look outside the window on the far side of the car.


It’s after six on a weekday morning after all; the streets are awake. All sorts of people bustle back and forth, most having left the warm comfort of their beds for the pre-sunlight cold morning, chasing the more-elusive-than-ever naira. My stare lingers on…and stops on a woman standing on the curb a few meters away from me.


In the light from several headlights she’s easy to see, but there’s something about her that makes her easy to watch. She’s light-skinned, petite, well-built, nothing excessive, comfortably round in the right places. She looks like Elsie before Elsie looked like Elsie.


The thing that makes me stare; however is her smile. It’s bright without being blinding; effusive without being superficial. She wears it with style, as naturally as armpits wear hair. It’s the kind of smile Beyonce smiles when she and Jay hug. The kind of smile J Lo had in those pictures with Drake. The kind the girls in pictures with Deoye always have on…


You know; that smile.


Her lips are moving; for a second it looks like she’s saying something to me (even though she isn’t looking at me). And then, I realize; she’s on the phone.


I lip-read to a small extent; snatches of her conversation come to me. Words like ‘tonight’ ‘eat out’ ‘later’ ‘stress’ ‘office palaver’ are beautifully formed by her mouth, she talks rapidly so it’s hard enough already. Ambient noise fades away, along with the honking of horns and humming of restrained vehicles. It’s almost too easy to imagine who’s on the other end of the phone; the husband on his way to his own point of commerce sharing an intimate moment with the wife he can’t seem to get enough of, the faraway boyfriend who goes to sleep when she goes to work, or maybe she’s sleeping with her sister’s husband –


My mind wanders into a few ‘darker’ possibilities; consciously I restrain and tell it to leave well enough alone. I like the idea of the faraway boyfriend best; I start to toy with –


Loud honking and yells alert me to the fact that vehicles are moving. Calmly, I take my foot off the brake and allow the car surge forward, waving my apologies to the danfo behind me. I drive away from that spot but her face – or rather, the look on her face stays with me. It’s a look I want to put on the face of the woman I love for the rest of her life, a look I want for everyone I care about. It’s a look that makes my chest full, and I have to sigh to relieve the pressure. It’s a look that makes me believe in something other than myself; a look I’m sure makes Sango sit on his fiery throne and call to the other gods; “Abeg una go fit help? Dis one pass me o.”


It’s a look that, for the moment takes my mind away from my cold and lonely bed in a grim, humorless apartment in a light-less neighborhood, off the 145 naira price of fuel – and makes me think; instead of the warmth another human being carries on the inside, a warmth that blesses you if you’re fortunate enough to find someone willing to share theirs with you. It’s a look that makes light of darkness and makes a joke of time, of death, of sickness and sadness.


It’s a look that tells me; as loudly as the thoughts in my head; “You are not alone.”



Happy Valentine’s Day.


#WeInTheKitchen #WeStayChefing #SomethingWarmYourWayComes




Talking To Myself



“Chanelling My Inner Hamlet”


I have this recurring dream.

I am traveling down a slippery slope – driving; actually. I am driving down this slope and I suddenly realize; I am the one behind the wheel but I am not the one driving.

The car suddenly makes a sharp left turn – and I am thrown out.

But instead of hitting tarmac, I fall into this huge pit beside the road. I fall, screaming – and then wake up in my bed, sweat soaked, gasping for breath.

Writing is a lonely endeavor. It’s almost like a child trying to take her first steps – she keeps trying and keeps falling. At times, the parents – or at least someone – is there; other times not so much. Rarely do parents ever get to watch the miracle of that.

What they; the parents call ‘first steps’ is actually ‘first steps in their presence’. They have absolutely no idea what or how long it took the kid to arrive where she is.

Writing is lonely endeavor. Most often than not, you have no one cheering you on – at least; not during the creating process. You keep doing, you keep going – and what you share with the world; most of the time is a finished product. Only writers like you can even begin to appreciate the rigor that goes into it – but even they don’t exactly know; simply because writing is as individual – as personal – as a thumbprint.

At least ideally.

It’s almost like sex – more specifically; sex with intent to procreate. A million sperms are released; but only one makes its way to the egg. And then, the man keeps hoping and hopping from one foot to the next; not exactly knowing how it works (or maybe he is a brilliant surgeon) but hoping something; someone would make his efforts count – and something of himself would be left in this world.

Writing is a very intimate endeavor. Like sex.

To me, I mean.

I don’t take it lightly; writing – I mean. I still don’t believe I’m any good at it, so I stay in school, paying attention to all the available teachers – the bloggers whose works are praised as crap, the ones whose works are criticized as ‘perfect’, the books that didn’t sell a single copy, the not-so-best bestsellers and the actual ‘bestsellers’, the dreamers who just want to ‘dream’ on in their space; yes, even the ‘attention seekers’, the attention whores – yes; all these people are my teachers and I pay rapt attention to them while I scratch my internal head and wonder why I’m not as good as them – why my writing isn’t any good.

Maybe I’m not meant to be; I console myself with.

Writing is lonely.

There’s always that frightening reality that no one actually understands what jargon I just spent hours scribbling. That understanding that humans are fickle – today we scream ‘messiah’ tomorrow we’re yelling ‘crucify him!’ That awareness that sometimes – all I do is to put the words together in an interesting way – that what I wrote really does not make an iota of sense.

Well. I’m paranoid.

Understand; this is not some attempt at humility or anything close. I hardly ever like anything I write simply because my stories rarely come out the way I see them. It’s frustrating – but I’ve learnt to accept it –the exact same way I’ve learnt to be grateful. I’m really privileged to make a living; a comfortable living off something I enjoy doing – even though I really suck at it.

Something that gives me great happiness. For that alone; I will always be thankful to God.

Writing is sharing. A piece; a story – a thought is simply saying; in a manner of speaking – here; I thought about this and I wanted to share with you, in the hopes that it connects and resonates with you in some unspeakable manner. I hope this helps you makes some sense of your world, I hope it helps you escape some drudgery and boredom, I hope it broadens your mental horizons – and I really hope; at the very least, it makes you smile.

It is to invite a random stranger to step in your shoes for a moment; a minute, a second, an hour – a day – or even for longer; see the world through your tortured/lonely/tormented/inspired/fired/tired/suicidal/haunted/happy/distracted/excited/traumatized/crazy/insane/colorful eyes.

To love a writer is to know pain. To let a writer love you is to live forever.

Em. That’s a shameless plug ashually.

And you read something – and you laugh; pound on your table at work in excitement, or you’re angry at the stupidity of another human being (a character, actually) – or you tear up – happy or sad tears depending – or you’re struck speechless and people around you are wondering what the matter is –

But you would have; for a moment, seen what it is like to live another life.

Such is the power of the writer.

And; in the will-live-forever words of Uncle Ben –

With great power comes great responsibility.


I have this recurring dream.

I am travelling down a slippery slope – driving; actually. I am driving down this slope and I suddenly realize; I am the one behind the wheel but I am not the one driving.

The car suddenly makes a sharp left turn – and I am thrown out.

But – instead of falling into some bottomless abyss, screaming all the way, I find myself going upwards.

I am flying.

At first; it’s a really strange and odd feeling. But, as is the way of humans, I get used to it. I look around, marvel at the beauty of night – of millions of lights; if NEPA allows it – and I smile.

And I wake up in my bed. Laughing. Beating the pillow and screaming into it.

Another demon exorcised. Another mountain climbed.

And – as it will be till I die…

Another story to write.*



*This piece was originally published in my second short story collection Love Drops. If you haven’t read it, click here to download – it’s FREE.



Love Drops – My Little Girl Speaks

One of the people I had the privilege to speak with for the purpose of the Love Drops collection is a little girl who I imagine ardent readers of this blog would know quite well. Let me recreate the scenario of said interview:

I walk into her room and find her sitting beside her bed, legs folded into each other in a yoga pose. She’s wielding a crayon much like I would a pen, and she’s scanning two books placed side by side in front of her. She looks up as I enter, and then rises.

“Hi there,”

“Good afternoon,” she replies primly, curtseying. Mother says you have some questions you want to ask me.”

I nod, feeling one kind. The child has a way of unsettling me. “Indeed. I would just like to ask you what you think about love – how would you define love?”

She resumes her former position and picks up the crayon – and then looks at the open pages. I have a moment wondering whether to repeat myself or to just wait – and then she suddenly starts to speak.

GQ - Character Names 6

Isn’t she interesting? What do you think?

Just in case – download Love Drops The Ebook Here:

Iya Rukka Speaks!


Good morning guys!


The best bestest part of putting together Love Drops for me was going into the streets and talking to varied different people and getting their feel about love and love related stuff. Of the twenty-plus people I spoke with – only ten made the jump. It was a learning process for me; speaking to these people whose lives were as far apart as my eyes to my toes.



I like – I really like everyone of the quotes – but if I had to choose just one –







What do you think? Does the lady know what she’s talking about?!

If you haven’t – download Love Drops here now!

Love Drops Side B – The EP.



Good morning, good people!


You got the book. Now peep the EP!


Performed by The Psalmurai, Love Drops EP is an interesting adventure down a soundscape – multiple ideas and concepts about love – or lack of it.


Anyways, no long tin. Peep the EP cover – and then download the music after the jump!



Love Drops The EP as performed by The Psalmurai

Love Drops The EP as performed by The Psalmurai





PS: Due to the nature of Soundcloud, you will have to download the tracks one after the other – as opposed to downloading one file. Hope you don’t mind – thank you!


Have a great week!

Love Drops Right Here!


Good Morning! Happy New Month! Have A Great Week!


*clears throat*


Sorry. I’m Excited.





Love Drops Is Here!!!!



Here’s Another Sneak Peek:





From a little room. In my house.

Somewhere In Lagos.

8th of February 2015




My Dearest One,

Yes. I mean you.



I try to imagine your state – I mean your ambiance; your feeling as you read this. If I know you well (which I tell myself I do), you’re sitting up in bed, ignoring the noisy backdrop from screaming generators – or maybe generators are reserved for engineering plants and whatnots where you are – reading this and smiling that smile; you know, the one you smile when you’re all alone in your world, away from prying and judgmental eyes. That smile that makes even you; the ‘smiler’ blush.



Well. It tickles to think you’re smiling for me. Really.



Do you remember how we met?



Wait a moment. Are you sure? I’m convinced it was on Naijastories o.



You saw a link on Twitter – or was it Facebook? Oh – someone mentioned the blog? For Days and a Night? Saving Dapo?



Or is this our first time?



No matter. We have a ways to go before this ends; you and I.



I recall; I remember the first words you ever said to me – the first time you got personal with anything I’ve ever done. I cannot recreate or capture the words here, but if I was to simply sum them, they would read something along the lines of:



You write beautifully.



I must have stared at your tweet/comment/post for hours because I found it beguiling to say the least. What exactly do I write that would make someone like you create time and space in your heart and head for someone like me?







Peep The Cover For The Ebook – And Then Download Love Drops Right After The Jump!





Love Drops !!!!!

Love Drops !!!!!








Have a great week – and Happy Reading!!!!

Love Drops – Excerpts II






Let us not bore you.



Instead – please read the second excerpt from the forth-coming project; Love Drops.











“Mr. Obi – “



He started awake, jerking as though he’d just stopped himself from falling. Wiping his face from sweat and during-sleep perspiration, he looked around – and then finally up at the woman addressing him.



“Yes, Rose?”



She tucked a stray strand of braided hair behind her left ear before answering. “It’s after nine, sir. I thought you would want to go home today.”



He watched her from underneath his brows, trying to see if she was trying to make fun of him. The lower left corner of her lip twitched as though struggling – and then it gave way to a smile.



In spite of his embarrassment, he smiled back.



Carefully untangling himself from the chair, he got up. “Why are you still here?” he asked the watching woman as he shrugged on his blazer. He finished and turned towards her to find her regarding him with a question on her face.



“You’re still here,” was her answer, and he felt as though he’d asked a foolish question.






“That was a good meeting, wasn’t it?” he asked her, some days after as they drove away from one of their clients.



“Yes it was,” she responded, but he could tell she was distracted. He turned towards the window, feeling somewhat disgruntled and not knowing why.



“Kola, drive us to Tobe’s school, please.” She addressed the driver.



“Yes ma,” Kola responded.



He turned from his perusal of Ikoyi streets and faced her. “Tobe’s school? It isn’t time to pick him yet, is it?”



She smiled at him tolerantly, like an aunt indulging her little nephew. “No – but it’s his birthday so he gets off early.”



The shock that appeared on his face couldn’t be affected. “My goodness! It is?”







In case you missed it – download “Parts Of Me” the first single from Love Drops here:



Thank you – March Two Cometh!