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By Akorah Chioma Diana  Growing up, I had deluded myself into believing that the reason for my father’s abandonment; for he had abandoned my mother, sisters, and me, was because of our gender. I had gotten it into my head that if perhaps my sisters and I had been boys, if one of us had been lucky enough to be male, maybe he wouldn’t have left. I call it a delusion now, but back then, I had believed in it with absolute conviction or as much will as a child of eight could wield. It started the day I heard my grandmother talking to my mother. I remember how she had sounded that day like she was scolding a wayward child. She had said that if my mother could have given birth to a boy, my father would have never left, and all would be well. Looking back, maybe the tone of her voice, while she gave this reprimand led to my belief, or the indiscernible silence that followed after my grandmother had said it made me draw up my conclusions.
 Bridges will be burnt, and loved ones will be lost on this path of candour on which she was about to embark; she knew this. But maybe it was for the best. Maybe, it would serve the justice they all deserved. - Bridges are for Burning, page 253. I have always had mixed feelings about toxic friendships, and my major questions while reading this book centre on the characters’ friendships. Seriously, what really is friendship?
By Oluwabusayo Madariola  The two girls were expelled from school on the morning of Friday, the 25th of June 1993. As they stood side by side in the Kupoluyis’ large sitting room that afternoon, the breeze from the ceiling fan exploded into the younger girl’s chocolate face as if a door to a large cold room was flung wide open. Like a bronze statue, she stood still, holding tightly the hand of the stick-thin older girl who was like a matchstick dipped in tar.
Shayo Kupoluyi, a heavily built, almost ten-year-old who was quite tall for her age, had turned on the two bullies who were tormenting Mona, the small, dark-skinned girl. Mona was twelve years old and Shayo’s roommate. A few moments after poking Mona in the head and calling her the descendent of the serpent that lied to Eve in the Garden of Eden as they got dressed for the morning assembly, the bullies were down on the cemented floor of their hostel room. One had clutched her knee as she wriggled around the floor in pain. The other coiled at a corner like a badly beaten boxer. Blood was oozing out of her nostrils like palm oil from a leaking gallon. By Bibi Egbekun  I used to silently judge my mother for leaving my siblings and me with our grandmother when we were kids. Every time something bad happened, I blamed and judged her. She was a widow, uneducated, and had four of us. I swore that would never be me. I'd never let my kids out of sight, even for a second. Now I watch my kids cling to my mother, and I am glad to get some rest. I direct them to her when they come crying and need me. I lay in bed long after everyone had gone to sleep, thinking about our next meal and keeping the roof over our heads.
By Akubudike Deborah  let me teach you how to be / a girl / without rubbing the rough edges of a stone / on another. bury all the clothes / in a thin line / not broad shoulders / not on technical drawing boards. /
at school, we drew lines a lot till / they became a part of me / obscure figures / an arc struck over two girls who know the taste of brimstone / licking it off their burning vulvas / trying not to draw any attention / By Rebecca Uduk  Do friends become strangers? I asked myself this question repeatedly as my eyes throbbed at the middle-aged woman sitting across me in the patient's waiting area.
We'd been friends, best of friends. That was until we parted ways after university. Initially, when we parted, we kept in touch and talked every day about the littlest and silliest thing possible. But slowly, the fire burned out and fizzled away like it never existed. When did this happen? I couldn't tell. We should have been happy to see each other again, flinging myself into her arms and jumping in excitement just like the old times. But should I say Anita was a changed person? Perhaps that was what I thought. Her once radiant countenance had grown dim, eyes dull, and so did the concave smile that usually cut across her lips. Was that a scarf I saw? I giggled to myself. Anita never fancied them; seeing her in one was an unexplainable situation. |