April 2020


Please sign this petitioN:

 nigeria's response to covid-19


Memoirs of a third world Millennial 
Chijioke osuji


CRacked porcelain


My sister, she’s our ada ada

The light of our family

A gem in every eye

The visitors, they love the way

She smiles and she speaks and she curtsies

A pretty little bird singing a pretty little tune

Doing the prettiest little dance

They do not see her piercings in places only her men can see.



Jahnedu Ibekwelu

Ever heard this joke? It's quite popular. It goes like this: 


"A barber just got arrested in my street for dealing drugs. I've been his customer for 10 years and I didn't know he was a barber." 


Yes. That joke. 


I was thinking about that joke when it dawned on me that I actually have a rather similar experience myself. And no, perish that thought. The closest I’ve been to doing drugs was chloroquine and its concomitant itching.


Healing Looks like hope 

chiamaka amaku

And bruise
And break
And hurt
And cry
And scream
And rage
And heal
And rise.


Knowledge is death

Toritse ogbemi-daibo

In the midst of the noise

It all settles like dust to the ground,

The clarity with which I'm embellished.

Drowned in my thoughts,

I swim in the knowledge of my flaws,

Knowing full well my shortcomings will haunt me.

And when the torment begins 

there is no sight of serene,

It's so difficult to see

In the misty cloud of my pain

When next I will be free.



MAYBE THERE ARE no good men

temitope ogunniran

Maybe there are no good men.

Maybe they're all trash. I'm kidding- I know good men exist. Just like I know that they’re in the minority. You know how I know? Because I am a woman, and women know. Hell, men (as much as most of you won't openly admit) know. Black women most especially, know. Because we have experienced it, we have data spanning centuries, my guy. We fucking know. And we're tired. And so we are asking for more- we are saying "this and this is how you stop violence against us, this is how you stand up for us, this is how you love and support us, and since you want to protect us so much, "this is how you protect us". 




know silence. 

Know when, 

know how 

to know when 

the wrong things want to be said.

Know your neck

itches when 

your unwell-

ness rears its 

head for hot air men like us breathe. 


Mine does, 

my father's did, 

so has yours 

since birth, 

through your many rebirths.



Mazi Nwonu

Dusk is playing a lullaby on the stained-glass windows of the catholic cathedral across the street from where I sit. I am pondering about life and death under the shadow of the blue and white tent that has served as home for my family for two weeks. The tent, one of hundreds in an internally displaced refugee camp on the outskirts of Benin City, is part of a tent town that started as a screening centre made up of a couple of tents. Now, it provides shelter for thousands of families. The number will grow, the tents will grow, eating deeper into the space farmlands and palm plantations now inhabit, and the line of cars that stretch back to the expressway will grow, clog the access and this place will become even more crowded. We would have to move then, for more people would mean less hygiene and death would follow.


Who will remind us?

heather njoku

The world is on it's back. Celebrities are monks, nerds are superheroes and pastors are conspiracy theorists. All my friends are online and there is more than enough content on Netflix and Youtube, but not enough certainty in the assurance of a new day and what will be. My mother is convinced that the rapture is at hand. Will she survive this? My boss is not saying anything. Will my job survive this? How much longer do I have to be home alone? I hate eating by myself.



also... stay at home and wash your hands and call people you love and meditate and help people out however you can and read and make art and use protection and share useful information and exercise and listen to music and stay positive...