By Buhle Khanyile For three years after my father died I occasionally experienced what, in retrospect, were fleeting psychotic episodes. Without ceremony, a touch of light headedness would swirl in my forehead and spread, like fog, towards the back door of my brain. A feeling of urgency to call my father would overcome me. Reaching for my cellular phone I would stare at it for what felt like an eternity while I tried to recall his office number. I ransacked my contacts list in a desperate search for a number that did not exist. At the time of his death, my father had been long
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.
The city is beautiful, especially at night, when the streetlamps cast their orange glow on the tarred roads, and when the lights from the buildings and ships set off the stunning beauty of the water. It is a view I’d pay to see over and over again, of serenity and breathtaking beauty. The city is hot at night, but sometimes, it’s breezy; sit outside and the wind will caress your skin gently, as though to blow away every atom of stress. It is stressful at times. You wake up at the crack of dawn, struggle, push and pull against other city dwellers to take a