(from the ongoing collection, The Wanderer’s Pulse)

Dakar

Here all the Signares of Saint Louis
a home true, theirs all theirs, finally found.
Stomping their swagger to rhythms natural
that with silver-blue swirling sea waves, winds
dry … Read the whole text

Upon meeting a Girl in Baga

You are the relic of a city.
I learnt the history of your body
threading the city borders.

You say stories are what we make of living,
I found yours in the language … Read the whole text

Bat

I’m in the kitchen scrubbing the insides of a kettle when I hear Pa say, Bia nwoke. I dash into the parlour while Ma goes on humming over the pot of egusi soup she is preparing. Each time … Read the whole text

Lord Rochester is Dying:  A Comedy

Act I Scene 2. 

Three weeks later. Tower Hill, Tower of London in background. “Bendo” is on a platform, and when he raises and stretches his arms, the image is suggestive of Christ … Read the whole text

 
Toronto Haunting

You really don’t know if you’re being haunted until you stare a ghost straight in the face. Everything becomes pretty clear at that point. Beforehand, it’s just a series of weird coincidences, shadows stalking you while you … Read the whole text

My Home and Native Plant 

I’m not your garden variety Canadian. I don’t own a Hudson’s Bay blanket. I no longer attend hockey games. I’ve stopped being overly nice and polite. And I gave up my citizenship when I … Read the whole text

Broken

I cannot remember when we stopped touching each other.  It began when mother left with a gash on her head. And older sister could not wear mother’s shoes. Laughter ran away from our mouths and the smell of cocoa … Read the whole text

Black Market  

They kicked in my door at three in the morning, four goons wearing camouflage overalls and balaclavas. I was flattered such a force was thought necessary to subdue me, but I would have complied had they called … Read the whole text

The River 

He stood in the rain, looking back along a quaintly curving street of houses half-hidden by trees and vines. He’d grabbed a raincoat and a hat before going outside, but rain dripped from the hem of his … Read the whole text

Stamping The Dead

It was an unwritten law of the land that no dead person was to be buried until his left buttock was properly stamped with the royal seal by the officials in the capital. Those who buried … Read the whole text