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

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