We were prepped like chicken that day
fed,
bathed,
skin massaged with fragrant oils.
A round table waited in the centre,
polished like an altar.
We gathered around it,
laughing,
gossiping about the men left behind,
the children abandoned to nannies.
Wine swayed inside our glasses.
Someone’s bracelet clinked too loudly.
Yet the room had already changed.
Eyes fluttered slowly,
conversations unravelled mid-sentence,
panic settling quietly beneath powdered skin.
Realisation kissed us goodnight
long before the darkness did.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 2:16 PM UTC
The reminder of us
hangs beside the bed,
leather cracking with age.
The sheets dampen nightly.
The ceiling fan spins excuses
into the dark.
Your leash still circles my neck
like devotion
was never meant to breathe.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 1:54 PM UTC
Would you call it running away?
I feel like I’m being slowly
undone by my own head
a constant buzzing,
a weight I can’t switch off.
I walk around the house
like I’m half-present,
answering questions
I barely register,
my face stuck somewhere
between irritation
and confusion.
So I decide
fresh air might help.
Not exactly what I need—
just the only thing
I can afford.
Freedom.
That’s what I really want.
I call it freedom.
Some call it running away.
Maybe they’re right.
Because I want to leave,
not forever,
just long enough
to be alone.
To sit with my thoughts,
to breathe my own air,
not the one shared
and reshaped by everyone else.
But no—
I get an hour.
An hour in the library,
hidden between shelves
and the books I love,
before I’m called back home.
Maybe that hour
is what keeps me sane.
Because privacy
isn’t something
I’ve been given
in a long time.
I’m turning twenty next year,
and I still wonder
if I’ll still be here,
thinking like this,
feeling like this,
quietly wishing
for a little more space
to be my own.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 4:22 PM UTC
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
I write this out of desperation
a final attempt to be absolved
before whatever comes next.
I write so you may pray
for a sinner without a name,
one you cannot — and must not — search for.
I was baptised, Father.
Finally.
Among thousands,
washed clean, made new.
So I believed it counted for me too.
I believed I was new —
until the purity I wore
was stained by a night
I never asked for.
So I’ll confess my present sin,
for my past has long been forgiven.
Where do I begin?
Perhaps with the least devastating.
I was pregnant.
With a child I feared,
and a child who would have feared me —
born from a moment that broke me.
And the man who caused it
lies beside me now, still.
His silence is the only mercy
he ever offered.
No, his end wasn’t gentle.
But it felt inevitable.
Why am I writing this?
As I said — prayers.
I may spend the rest of my life in prison,
if they find me.
It’s possible.
I acted in a rage I didn’t recognise,
and in the chaos,
I lost the child too.
My child.
Strange how the word
finally feels real
now that it’s gone.
So these are my confessions, Father
the ending of two lives:
one innocent,
and one who had long abandoned innocence.
P.S.
Forgive the stains on this page.
They aren’t mine.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 4:58 AM UTC
I might as well go rogue
Tell you I’m 18 — nearly 19
But I sit in silence
Waiting on your decision
Your plans
Always yours
Claiming you know what’s best for me
And maybe you do
But I wish you’d listen
Listen to me
My plans
So we can build them together
After all
It’s my life
I’m the one who has to live it
Good or bad
Hopefully good
I’m young, yes
But not foolish
Not blind to what’s right in front of me
Still
I wish you’d listen
You love me
I know
That’s why you let me be — sometimes
But why regret it
When I’m trying to be better?
Maybe to you I’m slacking
But behind the curtains
I am trying
I know I am
I just wish you’d see it
And if you did
A simple “well done”
Would be enough
I want to speak
But I can’t
So I write
I bottle it up
Until I can’t breathe
Until I break
Alone
Of course — not in front of you
Sometimes I think
We’re birds of a feather
Too alike
Too different
Maybe it’s because I’m a girl
Maybe it’s something else
But it would be nice
To see eye to eye
Just once
Instead of you being right
And me left confused
Carrying plans I didn’t choose
Because one day
I’ll have to choose for myself
Time doesn’t pause
For anyone
So isn’t it better
You teach me
To think like you
Instead of sending me into the world
Used to silence
Used to being decided for
Without ever hearing
My voice
My vision
My path
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 11:07 AM UTC
We’ll end this entry here,
my eager readers.
Soon my secret will come to light.
Maybe in the next entry.
Or maybe not.
So you may finally judge me
a judgment
I don’t care for,
but would still like to have.
Till we meet again,
I remain-
Lavender
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 5:32 AM UTC
Anyway,
let’s talk about that scumbag.
He went off the cliff.
After drinking our liquor room dry,
carving “tattoos” into my skin,
and leaving me
with a bruised eye.
He went out laughing—
and found himself
at the edge of a cliff,
with me
pulled along
by my hair.
I won’t tell you
what led to what.
But at the end of it,
he was at the bottom.
And I was “frantically”
running home
to call an ambulance,
praying quietly
for vultures to arrive
before help did.
Questions were asked.
Oh well.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 10:17 AM UTC
If you’re reading this,
you’re probably expecting
a neat little description of the author.
Sorry to disappoint you,
you won’t get one.
What you will get
are the questions that haunt me,
the answers I avoid,
and the explanations
I’ve rehearsed a thousand times
in my head.
Should I begin with the secret
I’ve been hiding—
the one I’m desperate
and terrified to reveal?
You might be lucky
and uncover it.
Either way,
I wish you the best of luck.
Some of you may call me cruel,
unfeeling.
But in the kind of world I’ve lived in,
it’s better that way.
Maybe that’s why
I couldn’t cry
when my brother died.
I could have saved him.
But why would I?
It’s not like
he would have done the same for me.
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 3:56 PM UTC
In front of the altar,
up close, you’ll see
a variety of people
different cultures, beliefs, behaviours
all bowing at the cross.
But I wonder, on days like this,
if they’ll all make it
to the place they hope for
after death.
Yes—heaven.
Because I,
standing before this altar,
am an observer,
a quiet journalist of my own,
driven by curiosity.
I study this crowd of hidden wolves,
an uneasy feeling in my chest
as their real selves slip through
every now and then
even behind their masks.
Just for a moment,
they show themselves.
And I see it,
the need to belong,
the fear of being left behind,
the performance of holiness,
the hunger to be seen,
to be chosen
by those who call themselves sheep.
And still,
I see you
most of you
as you sing,
kneeling
in front of the altar.
Pretending
not before God,
but before each other.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 3:51 PM UTC
Ada, well done.
For I hail you.
I hail your resilience,
your patience,
your diligence.
For as long as you remember,
you have been part of the kitchen.
Your siblings have been your responsibility,
your hands to bathe them,
your feet to fetch,
your voice to soothe,
your back to carry what was never light.
A mother‑in‑waiting
before you ever became a child,
because your own childhood
was taken before you could hold it.
So for you, Ada
who does for others before herself,
who keeps the house from falling apart,
who ensures all is right
so no one else will shout,
I hail you.
For the shouting,
the slaps,
the canes you’ve taken on behalf of many.
For your constant striving
to keep peace where peace refused to stay.
I know you may not be seen.
I know you may not be appreciated.
So I will give you exactly that.
Dear African First,
You’ve done well.
You’ve protected,
You’ve fought,
You’ve stood tall and strong like an iroko tree.
You’ve carved a path
for others to follow.
You’ve done well.
So when you get the chance
to spoil yourself rotten,
please do so.
It is needed.
It is deserved.
For the fact that you kept your sanity
even with your own problems
hanging around your neck
like a heavy necklace.
Ada,
you have done well.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 8:26 AM UTC