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This space is where my thoughts land when they’ve run out of places to hide. It’s part diary, part soapbox, part sanctuary. Expect reflections that challenge norms, stories stitched with memory, and questions without tidy answers. I’m not here to go viral. I’m here to go deep. If you’ve ever felt too curious, too intense, too “much” welcome. You’re in the right corner.

Christmas in Chibok

No melodious drumbeats.
No stomps of dancing feet.
The day stays dry as bone, locked in pain and agony.
Trees stand unclad under the harmattan breeze.
The maidens of the town are missing.

Christmas in Chibok.
No Saratu to cook the rice.
The town feels empty.
Hens wander through the dust.
No rice grains to grind.

Christmas in Chibok.
No Kuli kuli or Masa.
Grief wears black.
Mothers mourn their maidens.

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