When We Go Blow?

This story is for the first true artist I ever knew. I was 11 years old and he was my intro to making wonder and awe out of empty pages and boredom. (King from Niger House also existed, but Tobi had the X-Factor). Recently, he helped me remember the title of a book we wrote together when we were in Junior Secondary and basically saved me from the numbness that has been circling me concerning my future as a writer.

In W. O. Akosile’s recently discovered graphic novel & art project; Kekere, four teens from Lagos find themselves transformed into superbeings after unexpectedly drowning, at various times within a certain week, in an underground pool of sentient rainbow-oil. The cover is painted to look like a rectangular slab of said oil, with thin near-invisible threads which glisten like petroleum on water breaking across the thick paper when it is angled towards certain lights. Gloss, shade and texture give the entire affair an indelible impression of viscous black oiliness. The title glows orange from the centre of the cover, as though made from the brightest rays of a late sunset. Each tiny letter is set a substantial distance from the next and the impression is one of the word Kekere burning within the oil of the cover, or out, in the incalculable ink of space. Continue reading

Short Fiction

The Keresimesi Christmas Miracle

This (traditional Christmas) story has been on my laptop for exactly four years. I was never brave enough to post it because of the single serving of homosexuality in the third verse. Here’s to a year of love, safety, honesty and self-acceptance. Enjoy your rabbit.



On the night before Christmas, consider Odun, the youngest daughter of the Keresimesis, who is accused of robbery by a Christmas tree.

It was near midnight on the eve of Christmas and she had been rifling through the boxes that sat at the foot of the tree, shiny curls disrupting the tree’s plastic needles, searching for the Gameboy that Daddy had promised. The tree was big, and its fake green skirt hid her very well. One particularly heavy box refused to move and she wondered if Mummy had finally gotten her Portable Grill. She crawled around the trunk, bathed in splashes of light; red, blue, green and yellow. The 8-bit music was tinny with the familiar song of dying batteries, and its occasional drift into static and jargon unnerved Odun enough to want to escape back to her room. Continue reading

Lights Out

Inemo Goes Under


“Your mother will not die”, the herbalist says, “if you bring me the yolk of a sea beast’s egg.” Inemo stares in open mouthed disbelief at the wrinkled deadpan old man. After hours of sprinkling his feverish mother with raw eggs, fresh chicken’s blood, crumbled seaweed and sea salt, Baba Felix’s first words are truly astounding. “Baba wetin you dey talk for mouth like this na?” Continue reading


Ireti Futura i.25

This post originally appeared on Ola Toxic’s blog, for a hope-themed anthology series he did. I wrote it while dealing with a new strain of depression, just as my mind began to fray and show more bruises. I often return to read it sometimes. I like how free it seems.


The nature of light is both wave and particle.


Sometimes I’m not sure what is to be done. (Most times.) The world spins at an alarming rate. Inside palm, in words and eyes and skin and heart. (The core is a holiness you can’t permit.) Attempt to sever before it consumes you. (rot.) There are tiny eggs under your skin, they look like pimples.

The world spins at an alarming rate. (ner.vous.wreck.age.) You are so convinced that it will pass before you can get your chance to shine, to glow, to bask in joy. Continue reading


Erin, or, The Great Elephant Parade

The tremors of their approach stop the hot afternoon.

Market women leave trays of plantain and fruit and peppers to stand by the sides of the road. They lean on their waists and stretch their necks to look for what is making their teeth rattle and their wares do tiny shifting dances. Some men leave their electronics and meat and fake shoes to stand behind the women. Children peek through legs and between arms and yet see nothing of what causes the earth to shake and boom like an out-of-rhythm drum. Continue reading