Our stories are worthy of being told
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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On the surface, the coup looks like an Igbo plot: almost all its leading plotters were Igbo or Igbo-speaking, almost all its victims were non-Igbo, and Ironsi, who crushed it and became head of state, was Igbo.
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What I really want/ is for you to let me be
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There was only so much time before everyone else knew what she knew about bodies: they hide nothing and betray everything.
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Your dermatologist, Dr Patik, says it’d get better, but there is really no cure. You’re a wilting tree.
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He cooed over our newborn and gently stroked his cheek, smiling in unabashed adoration.
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Pidgin English as a lingua franca in West Africa has united people, creating a bond that transcends borders.
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You pushed the doctor into the waters of desire and made him drown in it. What is it about sorrow that makes humans just want to do sensual things?
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Once you were my beloved. I swam/in rivers, then oceans, then not at all
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Sometimes, my roots—Ife, Babalawo, his cowries, the gods, maami—they make it hard not to believe.
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I am sad that grief breaks you into strong fragments/ of strength, for us.
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To make things worse, she had no child—something that, in the eyes of her detractors, was the ultimate proof of her witchcraft.
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I wanted to say I wasn't a big girl. I was only eleven years old! Eleven was still a child.
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A poem by Ariyo Ahmad
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I wondered what Mama was protecting about my late father. What dirty linen had she discovered and hidden before anyone came across it?
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Imagine that as the song plays in your head, you wonder why your woman has chosen to change her skin.
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