Just not spice.

Here are a couple of pieces I've written over the years:

FICTIONAL WRITING

Yetunde

The war had stolen more than land; it had stolen the shape of love. Once, Dayo had been a man whose laughter wrapped itself around Yetunde like a warm shawl. Now he was a soldier—sharp-edged, hollow-eyed, a vessel filled with vengeance. The death of James, his comrade and friend, cracked something inside him, and from that fracture poured a darkness that consumed all mercy...

Corper Corper

In “Corper Corper,” Chi (the narrator) plots herself at the crossroads of longing and heartbreak. When Corper John, a national service teacher newly posted at the local high school, arrives in Magodo, she is instantly captivated by his easy charm and every small interaction—his sweaty shirt, his kind smile, even the way he orders corn from her stall. What begins as innocent fascination evolves into something deeper. An unspoken connection grows: John begins texting her, inviting her to deliver corn to his home, and one evening, with a blend of nerves and excitement, Chi kisses him. That night culminates in a brief, passionate encounter—her voice and body both guiding and reveling in the intimacy of the moment. But triumph turns to shattering disappointment. After their night together, John treats her with cold indifference—saying almost nothing, handing over transport money without a glance, and then vanishing from her life completely. When he finally does respond, his words are brutal in their clarity: he is married, and can’t continue with her. Months later, Chi’s world is upended once more when John’s wife appears at the stall, seeking his address. Humiliated and betrayed, Chi watches as her love story crumbles—with John tossing her corn aside and dismissing her as nothing more than a roadside corn seller. In her world, she realizes: "Corper John? A different type of scum abeggg."

Tone & Emotion
The piece vibrates with unfiltered emotion—a mix of hope, longing, self-doubt, and the final sting of rejection. Chi’s voice is intimate, raw, and relatable, capturing the confusion of falling fast and crashing hard.

Central Theme
A quiet tragedy of first love: initial infatuation and intimacy, followed by a merciless revelation that the other person never intended more than a fleeting moment.

Just Not Spice.

Sandra, recently diagnosed with breast cancer, lashes out at well-wishers who offer hollow sympathy but no real support. She rejects pity and empty platitudes like “you deserve better,” harboring anger and despair. Reflecting on a life divided between obedient perfection and rebellious liberation, she recalls her transformation—from silent compliance to outspoken defiance, substance use, and genuine smiles. Physical pain becomes a reminder she’s still alive. Estranged from her elite, unsupportive family, Sandra feels abandoned and betrayed. Writing this piece is her final catharsis—as she questions life’s value, she challenges readers to feel her real rage, not just pity.

POETRY

CREATIVE WRITING

100 naira.

A single 100 naira note carries countless untold stories as it changes hands. From Aduke, who stirs amala at dawn and hands money to her abusive husband, to Uloma, a barmaid who endures disappointment yet uses it for transport fare. From Adio the keke rider, who extorts passengers, to Faith the tired intern and Halimat the...

Is this how it is being a man?

I often wonder what it feels like to be a boy. In childhood, tradition spoils you with privilege—biggest meat, no chores, sisters scolded on your behalf. As a teen, puberty brings trouble, love notes, heartbreak, and the vow to hide emotions because men aren’t allowed to feel. In your twenties, society’s pressures mount—money, relationships, expectations of success. You wrestle with bills, family demands, and the shadow of fraud as an escape. Beneath it all lies confusion, hidden pain, and the weight of masculinity’s mask. You laugh, you endure, but inside you ask: Is this truly what it means to be a man?

Ugly.

Death is here—I cannot run, fight, or even weep. It began with a doughnut, then ice cream, then earrings. D. I. E. My stomach churns, my body trembles. The final letter reveals the truth: poisoned gifts, a grudge born in childhood, a stalker watching through my windows. Arsenic in my veins, darkness in my lungs. Death knocks louder now, and with failing breath, I open the door.

You can find my other pieces at: