Monthly Archives: September 2012

Flash Fridays.

I’m trying to get myself to blog more frequently. Thank you all for being patient. I’m hoping flash fiction every Friday might be the way to get myself doing something on a particular day each week. I’ve never tried it before. Here goes nothing!



She touched her fingers to her lips. “I should go,” she said gathering up the papers on the coffee table.

“Wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I thought…” He rubbed his  head. The light bounced off it.

“No, I should have stayed this late anyway,” she stood, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“I thought this was what you wanted; what we both wanted.”

“You should have asked.”

“What about the assignment?”

“We should find other partners maybe.”


“I’ve never had a male friend,” she tugged on the ends of her sweater. “I’ve always been friendly towards men, but it always comes out all wrong. I don’t know what it is. I mean, my husband is my friend, but even he gets to have sex with me.” She looked at him, clenching her fists. “I thought you were my friend.”

Maudlin Monday.



  • This is the view from one of my windows. The first one was taken around five o’clock and the second around seven o’clock. I keep trying to paint this scene but I never get the colours right. What can I say? I’m a novice.
  • Hubs interviewed Linda Ikeji today. Her blog  is one subject we do not agree on. But you know, bless the hustle and all that.
  • I must have written about 2,000 words all day today. This post does not count. My editor is terribly English – and a bit posh. When he scolds me, it feels like being chastised by 007.
  • I had about eight nightmares yesterday night. I slipped from one into another. It happens when I am stressed.
  • I used to write poetry a lot; pages and pages of the stuff. At about 20 I had two poems sent off for publication by a friend in  the Abuja Literary Society. In subsequent reviews, I was  referred to as a ‘He’. It pleased me. It had a certain Brontë-esque quality.
  • I found a poem I wrote a while ago. I would love to have a reply to it, or your take on it, in any form. I was trying to tell a story as succinctly as possible. I hope I succeeded. It’s called ‘You Good?

He asks ‘You good?’
And I know the mood

But when I step in his life
He likens me to a ‘bored housewife’
Hurries off Central
When our eyes meet
At Bond Street

So when he asks ‘You good?’
I say ‘Hey. I’m good’.

  • Ugh. It’s one of those days. I am full of self-loathing.