Finding The Lost Rib

“Life is a fortress of joy when you have someone to give a glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel.”

The sky looked so cloudy as always in every night of rainy season, dense with darkness and laden with fear. I knew rain was going to fall, so I quickly finished reading the books I borrowed from the library in preparation for my last paper slated for the following week. I looked weary and my eyes already in need of sleep. Since morning I had been at Professor Jude library reading. My body besought nothing but to rest. I needed to sleep, but she had promised to call me. I didn't have any choice than to wait for her call.

Guest Post: A Loss That Dares Not Speak Its Name

Guest Post by Hannah Ojo

“my name is Khan. . . and I am not a terrorist.”

How many times do we need to carry placards, run jingles on radio, use the public address system and pay for ads on TV just to reclaim our innocence? These could be moments when we want the world to know our identity and innocence so that we won’t fall into the unguarded hands of prejudice. These were times when we have to tell the world we are not all 419ners, we are not corrupt, and we are not internet scammers and we don’t do drugs. Think of the bad PR.

Tune your TV to CNN, BBC and Aljazera, what do you see? A pitiable portrayal of Nigeria as a cesspit of hell. A place where young people with energy and talents bathe in refuse dumb for survival. A place where children of school age do not attend school but rather beg for alms. On education, they say we are not there yet: our degrees are not respected so that when you leave the shore of the country to pursue studies, you need to start all over again. You are black, not tanned. Apart from racial prejudice, you are Nigerian, you are bad!