The Weight of Sunday Morning
When I was seven, my grandmother would spend the better part of a Saturday afternoon kneading dough in our kitchen in Enugu. I remember the rhythmic thud of her palms against the wooden board, a sound that seemed to hold the house together.…
The Weight of Stone
I remember a set of stairs in a village near the border where the stone was worn smooth by three generations of restless feet. An old woman sat there one Tuesday, shelling peas into a tin bowl, her hands moving with a rhythm that had nothing…
The Architecture of Shadow
We spend our lives chasing the bright, saturated edges of things, believing that color is the only language of truth. Yet, there is a quiet honesty in the absence of hue. When the world is stripped of its pigments, we are left with the skeleton…