Blunt Tales and Coffee ☕️

  A huge chunk of Saph’s relationships ended on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday. It was as if the universe predestined Tuesdays to be her exclusive day of doom. Its mornings were mostly coated with a jarring routine—an alarm shriek, a stretch that seemed endless, lazy yawns, and a deafening hesitation to get out of bed. She’d have a brisk shower on her bathroom floor—so slick it made her trip thrice, nearly ripping her manicured pinky fingernail in half. And afterwards, when her outfit did not correlate with what she’d envisioned the previous night, she’d wear a grim facial expression which usually featured furrowed brows and lips curled up just enough to flash her incisors and canines in nothing that had the identity of a smile. What kind of day gets so predictable and unpredictable at the same time? Its afternoons held way less pleasure. Sometimes they made her emotional . She hated that word. Most of all, she hated being associated with it when it had anything to do with her boss’ ...

Mondays are supposed to be less hectic courtesy of the sit-at-home policy in the eastern part of Nigeria. However, because the folks over here love to defy laws that do not fetch them the currency which earns the average human egotistical and psychopathic attributes, it unfortunately, is usually the opposite for me. I find myself labouring, not just on weekdays, but on weekends, constantly trading my sanity for punctuality and a few naira notes, which, if you ponder intensely about it, can be harshly mind-boggling. Why do humans have to do that? Pay for things with their strength and time instead of simply existing to enjoy? I was told to turn on the generator on one of my trade days. Let’s just say, being an adult offers you zero discount on the consequences of naivety.  I miss my mum. And my siblings. But I know I'd want to be far away from them as soon as we’re physically close for too long. Not because they are despots, or they asphyxiate me, or anything, but because there'...

I smoked until my eyes began to water. I knew I'd always been unsure about the strength of my sight, but now, without my glasses and within this kaleidoscopic room, I begin to doubt it even more. My date is in a corner of the club, grasping a tainted glass of room-temperature sparkling water within his pitted palms and stubby fingers, and staring hungrily at the buttocks of a light-skinned plus-size lady strutting past him. With each movement, the neon lights make it harder for me to hold onto the sight of his appalling attitude, and even though the raspy speakers boom of “Lambo” by Burna Boy, a song I’d typically not glower at, I find myself thinking about the artist and the background of the music in a bid to get my foggy mind off the entire situation.  Burna Boy is a certain artist who grew up on the schizophrenic streets of Port Harcourt, Nigeria. I don't think it'd excessively amaze you, my audience, to know that for the longest time, I thought this artist originated f...

(Photo: Pinterest) One minute, she’s lying in your arms, whispering sweet nothings into your ears and drawing invisible, scabrous lines on your chest and cheeks until you begin to wonder why she’d chosen you even though there are thousands of better-looking women who’d prostrate at her feet at the slightest sound of her voice. One minute, her hands and feet are finding yours beneath the brunch table in a not-so-crowded restaurant, and you keep thanking God for finally leading you to ‘the one’. One minute, she’s winking and blowing you a kiss—which you grab from across the room and stuff into your pockets, making an effort to stop grinning wildly. One minute, you’re her everything, and she, yours. Next minute, you’re both arguing over the phone. She’s telling you “We can’t keep going against God’s will!” and you keep reiterating that you know God. You're screaming at the top of your lungs that you know it can’t be in God’s character or will to tear down something so pure—so gentle, ...