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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,…

Stories are memories. Memories are the ingredients that make our monotonous existence colorful. There’s always the blandness that accompanies every situation; and there’s always a story. That story is what doesn’t make us remember how bleak and  boring that occasion was. The stories you have seen with your eyes, heard with your ears is what keeps you walking on the streets of Lagos. At night when the world is asleep, it visits your soul and…