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When I think of familyI think of my fatherHe is the man who cherishes his daughtersAnd accepts his fate as one without a sonTo temper the feistiness of his four girlsHe is the one who taught me that its heaven not HHEVEANA bit horrified at my H inflectionHe is the one who confidently said“I will [

A thousand killed up NorthThese headlines have now become the normEvery day, citizens wake up Puzzled with the mystery of who will be nextThe misery of families in despair Wives crying for husbands who will never come home nowChildren crying for fathers they will never knowFathers selling their

It hurts. Where does it hurt?On my face. When men think the only reason, I do my make is to please them. When my red lipstickmeans I am being slutty and my plain face means I am too timid or rather unconcerned about myappearance. When I can’t laugh too loudly cos I am a lady. […]

You, you’re nothing. You won’t amount to anything. Waste of my money. That was the voice of myfather, running shivers through the depth of my insecurities.So, I looked to my boyfriend, who do you think I am? A ruck in the sack, he said. Someone to do thedirty dishes. Sometimes you are there for

I ranWith my short tige tige legsAnd its springy stepsLike that of a tolotolo I ran when my mother calledShe called me in her husky voice Like the reach of Yeye, the High Priestess in a covenI ranPast the reaching hands of miscreants, the agbayas we called uncleReaching for my small agbalu

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