Daddy: A Mosaic of Memories

Daddy,   I start with a confession:   I write this with utmost reluctance. This is my greatest act of defiance against my own will. I would have easily wriggled out of this if I could permanently evade this duty without feeling guilty… of disowning you.   I postponed writing about you more times than I

For My Grandmother: A Tribute of Thanksgiving

At the age of 90, Mama didn’t die young. Yet, the news of her death disorientated me and hurt me more than I can articulate in words. Her passage represented the foreclosure of the fulfillment of a personal wish: I had always prayed, at least, for my first child to

Letter To My Friend, Nze

Nze,   You have never hurt like this before. Your heart has never ached this bad before. But if you could see through the tears that cloud your eyes, please read this.   I am more proud of you today than I have ever been. I am proud of the fact that you fought

It’s Crime Against Humanity, Not #Dasukigate

The confessional of Sambo Dasuki and his gang has proved that their plunder of the monies earmarked for arming Nigerian troops against Boko Haram, the most deadly terror group in the world, caused the slaughter of 20,000 Nigerians. But the Nigerian media flinches from calling the crime by its earned

Who Killed Alams?

The death of Diepreye Solomon Peter Alamieyesiegha didn’t come within the range of vision of any prognosticator. But as soon as news broke that it had happened, a spontaneous epidemic of inquest broke out too. It seemed that a segment of his kinsmen, friends and allies, had been primed to

Oluchi and Her Cannibal Country

Tomorrow, Friday, 18th September 2005, a needless burial will take place in Aku, Enugu State. Oluchi Anekwe will be lowered into the bowels of a moist, red earth. The barely 22 year old, first-class bound 300-level student of University of Lagos, electrocuted when a loosely hanging high tension wire fell

Uchenna : The Cashier I Loved

When I alighted from the bus, I wasn’t prepared for any shock. I wasn’t ready for anything other than certainties. It was a Friday. The banking hall would be cold and close to empty. It won’t have the crowd, the air of mixed odors and the officious busyness of other


As one sits through the half hour bulletin and watches the TV screen renew itself with images of Death raking in a bumper harvest across the terrain – ISIS militants upgrading savagery with the playful slitting of throats of people who worship differently in Iraq and Syria ; the symbiotic


Dimgba Igwe, a rock star of Nigerian tabloid journalism and one of the nation’s finest columnists, set forth on a routine jogging exercise in his Lagos neighbourhood three Saturday mornings ago. And he died. A driver ran over the running Dimgba and accelerated away from his fallen bleeding victim. An innocent fitness