Blunt Tales and Coffee ☕️

Photo: Pinterest   A t  the core of Mushin’s chaos and utter insanity, where the loud voices of pedestrians and generators overwhelmed dreams and hopes, and hunger reddened the eyes and roughened the palms of most boys, Emeka hustled. Not because the street made him excited or because he was loyal to the street, tsk, I mean, where would loyalty emerge from? His hunger? But because the street never gave him enough love to compensate for being born into the madness. So he had only one option: make it out from the crooked corners of the place he’s known nearly all his life before becoming a robber or someone who constantly did immoral things to survive.  At twenty-nine, Emeka became exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion a few hours of sleep or a bottle of chilled Guinness Stout could fix, but the exhaustion that sits in every part of your chest where rest used to live. He had tried everything humanly possible for the average Nigerian man living in Nigeria; hawking phone acc...

  Short Story Photo: Pinterest I t was complicated, what we shared. We weren’t even a couple, but we did everything couples did. Shared playlists. Shared bed. Shared silence that screamed louder than words ever could. Late night drives with no particular destination in mind. Her legs on the dashboard, fumbling her bag for a lipgloss or a lighter. Her head on my chest during subtle storms, saying she could fall asleep to the beat of my heart. Her hands beneath my sweater, whispering how warm-blooded I was despite the weather. See, I always wanted to keep Egwene warm, but we had a thing for wrestling like foes. However, the good part was, we made up like hoes. Then proceeded to pretend we were just friends in front of the people we both knew. It was a kind of closeness one could easily mistake to be love.  Or was it?  ‘Cause I often called it love, while she effortlessly named it ‘something’. That ‘something’ kept me captive for years. Hoping she’d change her mind someday t...