Bombs and Breakfast

Chin and jaws moving in circle as his lips remained sealed, fathers chewing always made me uncomfortable. With the phone screen raised on his left hand, he paused to read out the morning’s bout of fear

“Everyone who loves their life should stay home from today till Friday, our enemies are planning an attack, be cautious and very prayerful. Do not ignore this message as it is from a reliable source, a repented terrorist”

Father finished reading and turned to us, watching for impact, the family did not disappoint him, and mothers hand went straight in the air, silently begging Providence to intervene while my elder brother bowed his head low.

I tried to stop my eyes from rolling “5th message this week, its only Tuesday”

It had become part of the family breakfast, this desperate gamble for life.

5 hours later, while the ground shook, I remembered the morning conversation

“One more day” I prayed

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Bring Back Our Girls

I wish we were taught more important things in school, like how to stitch the insides of your own soul; cross stitch, basting, blind stitch, back stitch (we would call it Heart Economics). There are so many things I wish for these days and just enough time to wish, it’s the end of road for us, just like the skinny man with the gun shouted. He’s probably right, that same night we were distributed easily, dividing garri among siblings, everyone knows men have needs, men at war become hungrier, they develop insatiable bellies.

As a bride life is different, I can’t explain why I keep dreaming but it’s all I have -to dream I will be free and laugh again- for survival. If these dreams have no viability then I inherited it from mama who stares through the cracks in the wall, touches my face and says “one day this one will be a great president”

(For over two weeks over 234 Nigerian girls were kidnapped from school to be sold as brides to the Boko Haram sect. We demand that the government bring Back our Girls)