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Lagos is an immensely populated city. The population figure is so high that there is a running dispute between the National Population Commission and the Lagos government over how many people actually live here.
It ends with a jaded god. Ogbunabali. The god who kills at night. They say he grants a request in exchange for five souls. It is called the ritual of exchange. It is well known. But, like every tale, there are four parts to it. The part you tell. The part I tell. The part we agree not to tell. The part Wiwe tells.
The waiter at the counter watches them. Short-lived glances driven by questions. Questions about these two men, none older than twenty-eight, who walk into a near-empty restaurant on a quiet evening.
He waited for applause but seemed not to care when none came. The campaign was over. Sleek talk and sweet words had lost their necessity.
In the Author’s Voice
[Hear the story in the author’s voice—audio reading included]
The girls watched as their grandmother fanned out the cash and examined the bills, searching for counterfeits, counting and recounting. Her bangles chattered like teeth on her arms.
That was the first time she learned that she had to set herself on fire to make other people happy.
When the sun came back/ I was a full tree/with all the room in the desert to grow,
I hope when they take my picture/I am filtered with bright exposure
She leaped from her window and became a swarm of bats.
A story from The Hope, The Prayer, The Anthem. Written by Joshua Chizoma. Read by Amanda.
The Lives We Live
The connection between my identity as a Black woman and my relationship with my hair goes deep. It means acknowledging the history of my hair and why perms and wigs even exist as hair styling options.
It was too late. We had tasted sin and seen that the repercussions were unclear and improbable.
Then I heard blog posts made money for writers. Like every click they got converted to money, like Linda Ikeji's blog. “When Google Ads enter your blog like this, you will blow.” So I tried blogging. I didn’t blow.
I was a simple child then. Intelligent, but simple. I knew I wasn’t like most boys my age. I didn’t like football, nor did I enjoy fighting. I was called a girl so much I’m surprised it didn’t become a nickname.
I was surprising even myself with all this wisdom. I guess beauty has a way of bringing out the best things in us.
Latest Poems
Your sight isn't playing tricks,
I really do want to.
When people see this on the news, they feel sorry that this is the place I call home.
but look at the sky! how it
spreads! a thing in vastness
A woman leaned her back on a broken wall/ her face a deep secret in her hijab
That was the first time she learned that she had to set herself on fire to make other people happy.
I’ve watched mothers / Break into rivers / Before their children’s / Sprawled bodies.
Once my life was brilliant with you in it
[Hear the story in the author’s voice—audio reading included]
The girls watched as their grandmother fanned out the cash and examined the bills, searching for counterfeits, counting and recounting. Her bangles chattered like teeth on her arms.