Last year I visited the city in which we became friends, and I tried to find that pie place. It must have closed at some point. I never knew its name or address, only that it was west of the expressway. I got off at every exit, muttering to myself that it had to be somewhere, even it was east of the sun and west of the moon. I wanted to find it and order four slices of pie and eat them with two forks—a bite for you, and a bite for me, …
“Are you a doctor?” The voice hangs in the air, speaks twice, before I realize that it is addressing me. The words come from a woman who has just squeezed in beside me on the concrete bench fixed to the subway platform. Many pounds overweight, hair crayon-yellow and frizzed beyond combing, she eyes my white pants and shoes, her eyes rimmed round with blue pencil like a …
“…They were like why do you find this hard, it is just reading. What’s wrong with you?” Obalende is the epicentre of Lagos—Nigeria’s most commercial state. It epitomizes everything Lagos is and it is where Sarah** was born. The sidewalks in Obalende are littered with market people who display their paltry wares to consumers—pedestrian and in transit. The roads are narrow, and cars barely fit their width through with ease. Strays from all around the country find shelter underneath the bridge …
In the summer between my MFA and PhD, I housesat for a professorial couple from my graduate program in New Mexico. They had a beautiful house: nothing outrageous, just a nice two-bedroom-one-bathroom with a backyard. I loved it. The floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room overlooked the mountains and lavender in the front yard. Those were the two things I had always wanted in a house: French windows with a view and lavender in the garden. In their house I lived a perfect life. I woke up …
The card I got for his birthday looks like a scene from a comic book—an illustration of a prehistoric man kneeling in front of a fire pit. I found this old photo of you discovering fire, the caption says. I spent too long picking the card, trying not to wonder what my friend would think, if I messaged her for advice on a birthday card for a guy who calls me his mistress. Comparing him to a prehistoric man seems appropriate; I always make fun of his age. Abuse, he cries out when I do. …