The Hum of the Hive
When I was seven, my uncle took me to the central market in Lagos. I remember the way the air felt thick, like a heavy blanket woven from the smell of roasted nuts, exhaust fumes, and damp earth. I held his hand so tightly my knuckles turned…
The Weight of Summer
The knife rests.
It is not the hunger that pulls us to the table. It is the memory of the sun. We slice into the rind, expecting the scent of rain on dry earth, or perhaps the sharp, sudden sting of a season ending. The fruit yields.…
The Geometry of Hidden Things
When I was seven, my grandmother kept a magnifying glass in the kitchen drawer, wrapped in a scrap of velvet. She told me that if I looked at a common leaf long enough, I would see the map of a country I had never visited. I remember pressing…