51, Glover Street, Ikoyi, Lagos. September 2nd, 1994. Basi Mi, Padi Mi, Eko da, Eko dun. You know I have always said that to you. Now that you came and saw for yourself, you know lies, and I do not live in the same neighbourhood. I miss you so much…

51, Glover Street, Ikoyi, Lagos. May 18th, 1994 My Dearest Basi, I have been thinking of you lately. I know I promised to write sooner, but Lagos has been too distracting. I hope you noticed the new address; this kind does not come cheap. …

I am waiting for Frankie at the corner of the street. Today, I meet his family. My braids are pulled up in a bun because he says I look cute that way. He says my name with a taste of Italian on his tongue, tells me what he likes, and…

I have always hated the tree outside my window. It never knew what to do. It either swayed too much or too little. It housed too many ants. I have never seen fruit on it. Tonight, however, as its branches tap heavily against my window, I have more patience than…

One morning when I was 12, My father held my mother’s hands to his chest. She looked up at him smiling, I heard him say to her “thank you for all you have done.” He put her hands down, picked up his suitcase and left the house. …

Kelechi sat with his head bent. The only evidence of consciousness was the occasional nod of his head as if he was agreeing to something and the constant movement of his hand. My poet was writing. When I had arrived the night before, he looked like he was about to…

The thing about the women in my family is we fall in love young. When my mother was 18, she had a daughter for the love of her life. My sister’s father had promised my mother heaven and all the wonders that lay within. Twenty years later, I would prove…