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Maybe fangs break
Do we stay the same

Those girls
They have homes

I can see why
Or all the things I cannot give

Not the sameness
I am half of it

True words reflect more
I just see you

Logic and broken fangs
None of which means anything

You don't drift with certainty
No fang can stay the same.
Two hearts, many paths
secrets, oh the secrets I keep

Emboldened my desires
Which are, oh the secrets I keep

This dark thing

Blood runs through, a surge

Life of another

Say those words

Take them back
So we can live

Let me,
I can make it better

What we never were
Is what we never will be

I never let go

To look at those places, the ones where we go

Keane's words stay here
As we watch Khalid grow

(Aida Oluwagbemiga)
Down the street of where I grew up, residents here were quiet and simple and made homes.

One of these homes got transformed.

Rooms with a view, the views not of sky scrapers and greener pastures, it just means whenever you are at the Atelier, they could be in the middle of an exhibition.

I suppose it doesn't stay the same.

New meanings with every visit.

It keeps things interesting, and thus who knows what you will find.

On Thursday games are laid out, we play charades and I squeal with excitement over all the filmic clues.

3, faces makes this plot.

Retro Africa speaks for the movement of black arts and creatives.

Atelier welcomes you to a home outside of a home.

If you connected only through art and are starving for real sustenance, take a walk to the backyard.

That's where we have all been going.

We meet up at the Pavilion where the food is by 6pm,
When the sprinklers are on, I wanted to be closer to the water and smaller sounds so we drifted.

A plastic bench and our feet up, that smell of wet greens as the day fades away.

The type you don't relish but want to steal away.

So we talked, we talked about art.

Questions and meanings and being okay without answers,
Our words didn't drift into the night, I suppose.

I don't know that they did or our voices were carried with the wind.

Our laughter might have, they weren't constant but sturdy.

Thick, no accents but free.

A surprise sequence follows this change as we met the Mrs.
A few minutes later, we were back in the corner.

The Mrs. Goes to lie by her husband on the wet greens the sprinklers had been on, before she joined him.

He said trust me you want to be here,

It made me think, this was a place you wanted to share.

Only in its smallest forms in the smallests bits taking very little.

There are no embellishments this time.

Maybe simple never goes out of style, but before Monday, we were here on Saturday.

That day we drove through the city, cheap drinks from Ceddi and by the cadastral zone we stared through Central Park, cutting across River plate and overlooking the secret Garden where we met again for the first time, Lo almost a year ago to the day.

Like the beginning, before the art and different names and different careers or the general mechanized change which had ensued, which we hoped wasn't over-bearing.

One thing remained.

So I say,  " I love Abuja, I wouldnt want to live anywhere else"
She nods in understanding, similar words had left her lips too many times before that day, that hour or in those moments.

Street lights shadows across, and a sense of a beginning.

Our city's charm being one of many things, but on that night, it was the feeling of a kindred spirit.

As one listens, the other affirms,

And what matters might be bigger than the voice which says it, so being able to sit to record a day was like everything else we liked.

(Signed: Aida Oluwagbemiga)
Sat, 2 Feb 2019, 15:41

The first time I learned to love I was 5 and we shared a brain. I remember feeling as though nothing could go wrong.
There was this girl, everyone shook when she looked at them, she was stubborn inclination, fiery and feisty and all that mattered was how stunning all that fiery strong will made the ****** cursed eyes of hers burn.
I turned 12 and I loved them still
You didn’t know this about me.
I started wanting simple hugs, curled in the dark watching TV not to touch any girls not to be sultry, or sensual but because I really thought we were all we have.
No boys to see us in the light that makes everything more beautiful, we could curl and cry to some goth film or a tragic love story.
No boys to make us tea when it's ****** Sunday, as we bleed without comfort.
The messages got blurred, in that courtyard we were all one of the same.
It's all dry down here, I still don't know what I want but I'm certain it’s not a kiss from a unicorn or a hunny.
I see her as I walk to her and I have no thoughts whatsoever, She begins to talk to me and then I think she is smart.
Her clothes are old and black and I think what an amazing girl.
(girls what’s there not to love about them?).
The streets of Mexico, have plants and chairs to eat on.

The house of Mexico, "Casa Mexicana" has a chef who says the occasional hola to me whenever I see her, and the DJ plays any Mexican songs, from Mariachi bands no one here in Abuja really knows to songs from Coco, so all your dreams of Mexico become just more than feels.

If you take a deep dive for hidden gems then you might be lost for 5minutes, with all the pieces which makes the walls and fortifies this Museum gallery feel.

There's more to Casa Mexicana than this.

Almost everything on the menu is organic, so you sit to this coffee with warm milk, and the coffee is lighter, it's traditional and you can open all your caffeine inhibitions.

It tastes almost surreal.

I almost always go for the chicken wings which are well sauced and come with actual home made fries, no embellishments what's so ever, so it seems like what you made or your mum made, without the sweat or having to eat at home.

With deserts for your beating heart, you could lead with a slice of the triple milk Mexican cake.

— The End —