You can’t help but think about your sixty-something year old father, who despite being a little ill, is marching with hot-blooded boys through the streets of your neighbourhood, chanting “Eyimba! Eyimba!”. This is the fourth night of terror and there are many fathers out tonight.
Ọla cringed and sank deeper into the dark well she had created for moments like this. Her ears throbbed and her eyes hurt as Nkiru continued screaming, her words bouncing around, off the walls and out of the room; through the half-open doorway and reverberate in the empty staircase.
here is also a feeling that I don’t want to be a part of this, that this, all of it, is something I don’t want in my life right now, or ever for the matter, and I’m feeling this the strongest. It’s not that I lack empathy necessarily, although that plays a role, it’s something more. It’s something about me, something in me