I couldn’t recall any of the stories. All I knew were echoing voices, recollections about gypsies drifting between shifting realms of magical spheres in the insomnia of memory. They enchant the cities they invade and leave behind an illuminated rhapsody of time. “Do gypsies sleep at night?” I asked. “Why are you asking?” Grandpa said.
In the year of heaven’s lunar ecstasy, when all the things that mattered lined up at the moment of orgasmic delight, I found myself stranded on the road to utopia, wondering why my mother’s continent was exempted from the luminous joy of the world. The moon, in her patient empathy with my plight, laid before
The blind have a way of seeing the world, In visions known to them alone – When I was first introduced to her As the last son of her deceased brother, She grabbed my hands firmly As if they were the strings of life; Holding her from a nearby grave – She held them tightly
As I sit on the bus going on home, After my first day back to work, I wear the garments of anonymity, Exiled and clothed in the garments of my memories – Who would have the slightest inkling that I had just returned From an emerald city of palaces, Resorts, skyscrapers, unprecedented luxury In the
Daughter of two worlds, sister to two brothers I have come to see the lioness and the lamp in you And watched how you fight your way through the Dichotomy of your life, living and learning to love two fathers Father by blood, father by marriage… How do you see yourself through their jealous eyes?
Throughout the world, Africans are converging, settling and migrating into different cities to make the Diaspora their home. Every day Africans leave in search of opportunities in other countries. Africans who have successfully settled and taken on new citizenships usually meet on the weekends to reminisce, celebrate new births, or congregate to contribute to burials