EMMAWAD

There was a time when the criterion for enrolling children into school was for the hand to go across their head to touch their ear. It was deemed practical and the proper judgement for establishing a child old enough to get an education.  Many of our parents experienced this because there was no documentation regarding age/birth certificates, so the logic was to ascertain a child's age by specific abilities. Take, for instance, Diana in 1985. The education standard for getting into school was from the age of 5. Diana's mother had painted beautiful pictures of a school's appearance and said that only sensible people were considered worthy of being a part of it. All Diana wanted to do was put on the new socks and shoes her mother had purchased. Diana dreamt of reciting the greeting the night before, 'Good morning, teacher; we are happy to see you; God bless you.' And so, Diana was taken to school that morning for enrolment. 'Fine girl, raise your right hand over y...

You forcefully open the double doors to your room to see your reflection in the large spotless mirror staring at you, as you try to avoid the Master. Your image kills the mustard seed of hope you have been trying to nurture – your eyes exhausted from too many tears. Your lips are chapped, and the glory of your skin is in the past - your beautiful skin as your mother would remark. You wonder if it’s because of its fairness or the hairless sight of it, or the chubby feeling when touched. And then you reckon the eyes of your mother are not yours. Your beauty lies in your freedom, you think to yourself. You affirm that you don’t belong here, not in this castle with grey walls, lofty ceilings, and heavy brown curtains. Not viewing ancient paintings of wars. Not on a bed for a crowd and certainly not wearing these expensive clothes too pure to smear. You recall the first day of your arrival at your new home. You were greeted by a servant who avoided your eyes as he bowed his head and sai...

  When she realized her hair was gone, the barber had increased the volume of his radio and India Arie’s ‘I am not my hair’ filled the room. ‘If I can manage the situation like a professional, my construction contract with her father will hold tomorrow,’ I thought. I breathe in and out, a logic that never works for me, but I do it anyway. I rehearse my words, changing each sound to a softer version of the previous one - aligning my looks to the words so that my eyes become half closed and there is a faint smile on my face. I wait for the explosion. All the while, the barber is busy touching what is left on her head with his clipper. He says it is the final addition and calls it the moon look. He fumbles with the chair, turning Stella from left to right like a child’s play. The large mirror in front of us escalates the mishap and the fumes on my girlfriend’s face seem to be burning the white walls. It was meant to be a makeover since her 25 th birthday was the next day. Now it...

  “You know, I get nervous by the sight of unkempt hair” “And why’s that?” “Well, it makes me imagine the worst of the man or woman in question.” “But you can’t always have clean cut or well-made hair. It’s hard work and who has time for such beauty strife. Or why do you think Beyonce sang that beauty hurts?” “I’m not talking about beauty. Rather I mean responsibility. Bad hair must surely birth a bad day. Look, I hate seeing my wife without her hair done or at least covered. I blame it on Medusa. Should have never seen that movie, T he Clash of the Titans .” “Hahaha, that’s just cracking! Now you blame your sick theory on a movie? Buddy, your wife must be tolerating a whole lot of shit from you. Cut her some slack and leave her hair alone. If you continue shaving yours all the time, you’d be bald before you’re even 40, man.” I’ve been thinking. A thousand tongues there would be if our hairs could talk. Imagine, a million heads would have a zillion tongues and more! The...

  I heard them laughing, pointing at different buildings at each bus stop. Some were tall, old, and short buildings but they had something in common. They were whitewashed. The daughter talked more than her mother. She even laughed out loud sometimes as if they were the only passengers onboard. They occupied the first two seats on the deck of the bus and could see the clouds moving slowly even better than the driver. The daughter pointed to a small house and said to her mother:  “Ma, do you remember Auntie Debbie? She used to live in a tiny house just like that. Ha-ha! It was too small to even accommodate our cat when I was 7, remember?” “Yes, I remember darling. But you’re all grown up, tired of kitty. She is all mine now.” They both smiled and then the daughter mumbled something, and it turned into a wild laugh, as if something went awry in their heads. My mother will not laugh with me like this. Never! I thought. In fact, I dared not laugh at anyone’s house - big or small. ...

Bridges fly over this town like birds. You see workers – white collar, blue, brown, purple – walking like the earth would collapse under their feet whatever time it was of the day. Obalende wakes up to the honks from private and public vehicles with passengers who are in a haste to meet up with work schedules. The yellow public buses make passers-by sneeze from black fumes, cursing the air at the slamming of their brakes. Although they are scrappy in nature, they serve us who can only afford a single meal per day. Don't throw a stone here; it just might meet one of your own.  Obalende welcomes you with the smell of food varieties from different local shops to the jamming of fuji music, to the preachers of eternal life, to the blaring of advertisements through loudspeakers well positioned on the ground. Those vendors, they sell drugs for multi-purpose functions. You will hear them marketing:  “Have you tried Egba Ijebu ? This drug can cure your stomach aches, your headaches, yo...

"I write to notify you that I will no longer try to convince you that I am good enough to be an employed citizen of and in this country. How many times do I have to state that I have my PVC, NIMC, International Passport, Driver’s Licence, Birth Certificate, LASRRA, NEPA/PHCN bill (even though I am still unemployed I pay my tax), Waste Management bill, Water bill, and so on?” "Do you not know I have been to primary school, secondary school, and university? Do you not know I have a masters degree plus a PHD? Add to the fact that I never failed any subject or course in the four walls of all the schools I have attended. You can take that to the bank!" "You are all making too much noise. Say I take all your claims to the bank surely, I will not cash out. My great grandfather was a farmer, and so was my grandfather. My father died farming and now I have inherited the family heirloom. I am sure my son will also take up this inheritance. With all the experiences we garnered...