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I came online to express my grief, to cry for the demise of such a rare man. But the online space was fiery. Nigerians were talking about bad roads, poor supply of electricity and insecurity. Someone even mentioned the poor state of state-owned hospitals before the COVID-19 pandemic. I was devasted. Something again went off in my chest — I seriously need to get that checked. How can we talk about bad roads in the face of grief?

JolaadeLove me & mind not the colour of my skin,My age, class & naïvete. Love me wholeheartedly for who I am For the sooth is my love for you is true. Love me as I love you infinitely & with redemancy – with the all of you. Love me with the vibrancy of your natural way For your pulchritude alone aglows my world. Love me without condition & seek not excuse To escape from this…

i to be depressed is a sin in this nation where it’s name equals depression. the white’s man disease it is! & my heart weeps out: ii. i pledge to depression my county to be drained, famished & broken to serve with all my sweat & sanity… iii. mama found me this time withering away in the corner of my room like a flower deprived of water. she sprinkled some smile on my sad face.…

COVID-19 is real; that I’m certain of. I’ve heard so many conspiracy theories I’m convinced these movies have done so much damage. I’ve heard the 5G tale, the World War 3 “without a single gunshot” tale (my favorite), the Chinese takeover tale, the chemical weapon tale and a few more. I must admit that these tales come with a fancy ring; imagine telling my grand-kids I lived through the years China killed the entire world…

You’d have to pardon me, I should have sent this in since Saturday. But Theatre Arts and laziness are two dangerous factors that could hinder a good man from achieving his dreams. But Thespis is a liar; I’ll write today. The past week wasn’t so eventful, considering the fact that classes resumed immediately after resumption, and girls in the University of Ibadan didn’t refrain from asking boys like me for money. The most significant of…

Last week, the world woke up to the death of Gen. Qasem Soleimani, the head of the Quds Force in Iran. He had died in a U.S airstrike on Iraqi soil. Iran isn’t a calm nation, and this prompted people to go on Twitter and suggest the coming of a third world war. It is unfortunate that most people think this is simply another “muscle-flexing” act of the U.S., but in fact, this is a…

Coming up with a title for this diary was pretty easy. All I had to do was find a group that I completely identified with; one which resonated with my reality. Terming it broke wasn’t in any way unplanned, or an attempt to sound cool — because even all these ballers are calling themselves broke. It was more of representation than anything else. I am a member of the Broke community; at least I can’t…

climax is when she left you in the lurch to romance a simple text: “i’m gone, do not look for me.” tragedy is when you start fading away in the corner of your room like some words in a 70s newspaper. & as you sip her away with hard liquids, smoke & sadcore songs, her memory will sink down more to your heart. your heart: a graveyard for sour spittle of when you kissed; b…

This particular story doesn’t start with this sentence. It doesn’t even start at the point I tell myself I want to write a story. It actually starts on a horrid Saturday afternoon existing in the smoldering embers that is my childhood; in a time where time was simply a clock ticking away in the sitting room which doubled as a bedroom and love was sitting on a carpeted floor with my brothers devouring a large…

i. mama, these verses are stained with yesteryears’ distress, today’s tears and red- black ink of sorrowful solitude. ii. my mama who art behind the clouds tell me how to attain the sunny summit when my whole is drenched in darkness and death-blots smearing these pages? …i am sequestered to stare at the sunny sky. iii. my teacher asked me write about you and i wrote in a sentence: “my…

Black Youth is now accepting submissions — short stories, poems, essays, critiques, photography and opinion articles from writers worldwide. All submissions should be emailed to blackyouthng@gmail.com and should be in a single Word Document attached to your submission email. Simultaneous submissions are allowed. We look forward to receiving your works!

Her clothes smudged with dirt, and a hair awry as the chewed mango on her juicy palms. Lying face down on her milk thighs is her baby, Tema, who just left brother Femi’s hands for a napkin change. The moment little Tema escapes Femi’s arms into hers she broke into a shrill cry. The baby seems to prefer Femi’s hands more than her mother’s, perhaps, Femi’s hands seem to fry baby tears dry. Often times,…

Climate change and peace are like two sides of the same coin. When one is treated with care, tactically and strategically, it effectively promotes the other but when treated with negligence and ineffectiveness, it fuels existing conflicts leading to violence. – Abimbola Abikoye. Climate change is a threat multiplier that increases the propensity of violent conflict. The mix of these impact and the socio-economic and political problems already in existence will deeply affect countries with…

You are in the elevator, crowded only by your thoughts and a reflection of you in the elevator’s mirror. Your destination is the fifth floor, and you had boarded on the ground floor. You know there is the likelihood of a stop on other floors to pick up more passengers, so you position yourself in a corner; to accommodate other passengers. When the elevator stops on the third floor, there are three women. You look…

The phrase you only die once seems to hold some iota of accuracy to a great number of the human populace; save for our protagonist Obiageli. For her, death came quite a few times throughout her existence, and each time she had thought it was finally her moment to pass on from this great big ball that spun itself around the sun year in year out. Each moment was horrifying— something right out of the…