It stabs my heart, the swift prickle of a double beat. It steals my breath; my lips part, I inhale and exhale through the space between them for a bit, long breaths to steady my heart till my nose remembers to breathe.

It’s the smile that lifts your cheeks to egg-shaped bulbs, the strength of your arms when they hold me so close I can tell the perfume of your shower gel apart from that of your body spray, the textured tenor of your voice that sings a lilting laugh… just before it fades to teasing chuckles, the hazel brown of honey irises set in clear white cornea… shaped like a cat’s.

“Can we be together”

“I love you”

Blushing words, yours, before I needed that space that broke your heart. And mine.

“How do I fix it?”

It’s the earnest whisper of you, over the phone. The breath, slowly exhaled, stalling a tear, or many. The hands in your pocket; fisting. The piercing stare that took a picture of me as I stood calm, and didn’t see my bleeding heart. It’s the measured step of your legs; right first, then left… As you walked into oblivion.

It’s these little bits of you. Memories.

They stab my heart, the swift prickle of a double beat. They steal my breath; my lips part, I inhale and exhale through the space between them for a bit, long breaths to steady my heart till my nose remembers to breathe.

They’re ghosts that tip-toe in the recesses of my mind. They slip into dreamful nights, tease random unguarded moments during the day. They flash glimpses of a past life, cast shadows on events and places; we’ll call them déjà vu.

This is hello from the other side. The one that’s open… and broken.




March 24, 2016


*grinning like a loon*

Yaay! Baby’s birthday!! Baby’s birthday!!!

It’s that crazy little voice in my head doing the dance around; in the guise of reminding me again. Like I have any chance of forgetting; it’s been reminding me everyday for the past 24 days! I had woken on March 1 to a whisper:

baby’s day in 23 days.

I had smiled at the thought, and that must have been my mistake. Because the voice was there the next day, and every day after. Each day the number was a day less, my own mental count down. How then does it -the voice- imagine I could have forgotten? But now it has me infected with what I’ve named Baby’s Day Fever; symptoms of which include warm temperature, loony grins, and hyperactivity.

Baby Baby Baby

The little voice is chanting incantation, command to which my fingers are flying across my phone, calling Baby. It’s over ten minutes of singing the old happy birthday song and lots of teases, but I eventually get off the phone. Sometime during the call I started dancing to music playing in the background, so now there’s excited endorphins in my system. Something’s singing rather loudly, and it’s not me because it isn’t singing off key. I shut my vibrating vocal chords to locate the ‘musician’, then gasp. Darn supposed “little” voice in my head is going all Beatles on me! 

March 27, 2016


*fuming in the rage born of dashed dreams*

What the… how the… but…

All the goodies in my provisions wardrobe are missing. They have erased, poofed, simply disappeared like they were never there. Not even crumbs,wraps, or disarrangement of my non-edibles to tell me I’m not insane. You know, to assure me that they were ever there in the first place. But, you see, it’s Baby’s doing. So I’m screaming his name, and chasing him round the house when I hear his footsteps thump fast somewhere outside my room. He must have been standing outside my room, waiting to see my reaction to my now-empty wardrobe. He’s so in for it! How can I come home after a hectic journey and -because he has gotten home before me- meet none of my goodies?

My goodies o! My personal goodies stored in the private wardrobe in my very own personal room!! What impudence!!!

Little voice is chanting as we chase Baby; enraged. The words fuel my legs to run faster, till the incredulity of it dawns on me when I notice he is laughing. We are two full grown siblings: he running from me, I chasing him, and our dog, tail wagging, woofing and weaving in and out beside us, and between our legs. One of us would soon fall. And we would become a ball of flying limbs, tussles, and rambunctious laughter; punctuated with whizzes and yelps. We always do.


In case you were wondering how I know what happens 3 days away, well, I know because I know Baby. By the way, we both know you now have proof of what I always say. Baby drives me crazy. He always has. All indications suggest he always will.


Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you Olu’Draaaaeeee, happy birthday to you!


Heys You Baby! May you live fulfilled always and everyday, your eyes always twinkle, your smile always reach you eyes, and your heart always give, and receive. Happy Birthday Baby Brother! *xoxo*


This Day in Crazy…

Did you see the full moon last night? And have you ever wondered about the lunar insanity theory?


Baby ‘Jide

I saw the full moon, and I was thinking about the theory. You see, I know this bloody intelligent baby, too damn handsome by more than half, and with the craziest laughter that would make you grin, or smile at the least; even if you’re mad at him. That shouldn’t be possible. But you see, he was born on such a night as last, many years ago, when the moon was full.

He’s probably gonn’ curse me out when he sees this. But then I’ll remind him I got some dose of the full moon that night; roaming the grounds of the hospital, waiting for mummy to “give me a new baby”.

My crazy -the little spark of mad genius in my head that dominates all day most days- started this day, a score and over a half decade years ago.

Happy Birthday Baby! May our crazy show you the best of living. #xoxo

Hey LIL!

The sun was dipping in the West, and the sky was that deepening shade of blue highlighted by orange streams of fading sunlight. The playground was a quaint space of brown sands and colourful swings against a blue walled background. It was perfect; almost.

The singular child on one of the swings didn’t have his legs flung out in ecstatic hope of reaching the skies in swinging moments. Neither did his hands clutch the swing chain in a death grip to ensure he did not fall off during the ride. His body was not upright, nor was it stylishly swayed to the side as kids often do to influence the movement of the swing sideways. Not so perfect; that picture. His head was beside his right hand, his eyes closed in a nap. His body sagged against the swing, gently rocking to the July rain-winds. But only for a moment.

A cream coloured shirt tucked in navy pants walked into the picture. It clothed a lanky teenager who leaned carefully towards the sleeping child; perhaps to not wake him with a startle. Tick, Tick, Tick… Lazy movement on the swing as the child lifted his head to look at the voice gently urging him out of sleep. A slow smile upturned his lips, crept up happy cheeks, and lit his eyes even as they held a question: “where have you been“. A straightening cream-coloured back, reassuring eyes, and a returned smile. The child, still in the swing, extended his hand, confident he would be held back; a grin pulling his lips apart to reveal white baby teeth, his eyes dancing with joy, with trust. The lanky teenager held him, laughed, revealing similar set of white teeth. There, just there, was the perfect picture.

A child in a swing, hand outstretched and held by a lanky teenager in a cream shirt and navy pants, the wind billowing their clothes about them, coloured swings around them, brown sands beneath them, orange-stained sky above them, and blue walls with wooden windows behind them….

“Aw naaw”

That’s his favourite whine these days. His lips are pouting, his eyes dancing with some mischief, his teeth still white. His fingers are slim and long, quick to dance in explanation of something or the other. His grin is still quick, his smile still beautiful. His legs are all long and tall, intercepted by the roundness of his belly. Travelling up that journey to seek cheeks marked by dark dots -echoes of past adolescence- is akin to glimpsing the sky. He’s all grown, long bones lengthening his frame; all male, ghosting moustache and slim sideburns drawing his face; all man, plush muscles jumping to primal protection of his. But he’s still that child on the swing, fourteen years ago.IMG_20140402_115944 (2)

Lil, as you celebrate today, remember you were born to do epic. Strictly, purely, EPIC. Big Sis loves you plenty.