The darkness is here again. It’s gathering, crowding at the base of my throat, and if I look down for even a moment, I will drown. I think it’s my fault that it’s here this time; maybe I invited it by calling its name, and maybe I roll around in it a little; it’s comfortable and has room for self-deprecation and pity parties. Every year, it comes and slowly winds itself around me, squeezing until I’m gasping for air and blinded by its thick fog.
Where I grew up, the last three months of the year are known for the harsh cold they bring. I remember occasions when my face wrinkled like the skin on an old woman’s neck; you dared not powder your face and you better have a jar of Vaseline in your purse. One of the things that surprised me when I first moved to Lagos was the year-round heat. Before you even get to the Mowe – Ibafo area, you start to feel the change in temperature.
Alright, I’m back *sigh*. Y’all aren’t giving the self-hosted site any love. :'( But hopefully, you’re still here, so I’ll duplicate the posts from there on this blog. Here’s one of them: Scrape. Scrape, scrape. I’m cleaning house today Ridding myself of your lies and perversion Scraping and dusting corners and rooms Peeling out the poison that is the very essence of you. Scrape, scrape, scrape. You’re hard to get out; How did your tentacles spread this far? When did you get so deep under my skin? I try to shut you out, but your fumes find their way back in; And when I think