
Lyrically │ Feyisayo Anjorin │ Short story
I keep sneering at the words of these oloshis who give me solemn and sagacious looks born of their deep-seated belief that my lungs would soon turn black and my…More
I keep sneering at the words of these oloshis who give me solemn and sagacious looks born of their deep-seated belief that my lungs would soon turn black and my…More
Image courtesy DC Library Tope Folarin’s A Particular Kind Of Black Man is a metaphor for identity, ambition, loss, a love lost, a conflict between the past and the future,…More
Alice cooks Olo’s dinner naked save for her batik wrapper draped over her breasts. She boils the meat in a broth spiced with fresh peppers so that the tenderized meat…More
Meet Olo, Alice’s husband, again. He is still lying on an armchair in his living room, snoring away his Saturday. He will wake up soon enough with a splitting headache…More
The last time I wrote a story listening to Enya’s Flora Secret, I cut my left index finger and allowed the gushing blood tell a story of how I was…More
I started naming the cities in my body when I was ten. Some I named grief, sorrow, agony, and mental disorder. Others I named brokenness, injustice, and infirmity. There was…More