December in Cape Town rubs me up the wrong way. The tourists. The traffic. The tourists in traffic. I hate everyone and everything, but it’s the heat that really rattles my nerves. While my sweaty thighs chafe, high fiving each other to make me look like I peed myself, my brain can’t seem to get enough […]
The Things That Survive Death
I looked into the mirror and saw my twin sister’s ghost dancing on my face four months after she died. We didn’t share a face, but I could see her in mine, she could see me in hers. I’d taught my eyes to focus on anything but the reflection staring back in mirrors. That day, I was careless.
This Is How We Grieve
1. Homecoming On the day I arrived home from the hospital with my daughter, I went straight to my grandfather’s bedroom. I waddled through the door, supporting myself with its wooden frames towards the nearest chair in the room; my body still reeled with pain from the episiotomy. He was sleeping but he stirred when I […]
Every Day is for the Thief: On Meeting Teju Cole
I met him in 2013, with many admirers – new and old, riding on the fame of Open City. Teju Cole speaks to convince. His speech filled with pauses and precise anecdotes. He knows his way around words and understands how to convince and also ease you into his POV. His eloquence and carriage became […]
Scribbling
I remember when Malova ran away from home. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry. He was filling up the bathtub with water for me. I would have a bath early in the evening, after which it was Eric’s turn. My father broke into sobs as the warm steam filled the […]
Looking for Uncle Daniel
Uncle Daniel never came to my mother’s funeral. She died in 1994, long before the mobile phone made its appearance in Nigeria, so word took longer to travel. We had to wait ten days to bury her, as I had to make my way down from Jos, where I was in boarding school. You would […]
Too Much
Chew-Bose writes the way I wish I could: lots of commas, full-stops and, short sentences with structures unlike those you learn as a child coming to grips with the use of the English language. Sentences that make more sense now after speaking the language for years. She describes her style of writing as, “Starting somewhere, […]
My Country is a Crying Child
I wrote an email to a friend the other day that began like this: When I was a kid, I used to say quiet thank yous to the universe that there were no tsunamis or earthquakes or tornadoes where we are from. Like I had luckily been born in the one safe place on earth. […]
Grandpa’s Cupboard
I want to remember. No. I don’t want to keep remembering. But shouldn’t I? His face keeps popping up here and there, in my dreams, in my wakefulness, smiling his familiar assured smile, inciting me to come and play, as if he was here. He doesn’t say anything, only the smile. The last smile. We […]