I often forget I own a blog, other times, some of the things I write aren't long enough for a blog post.
Fortunately, and ironically when it comes to length, my heart doesn't seem to follow the "rule book", a lot of the things I log into my notepad are not more than four to five lines.
It's partly why I feel twitter is a safe space for me; with the 280 character-limit my very very short stories do not seem out of place.
You only get to type about 40-70 words, it's like learning to speak anew, saying more by saying less.
You know what? We should all be on twitter, "X" I mean. Heh!
You're probably wondering how all I've said relates to "growing out hair", well we're getting there, I'm not the kind to give spoilers. My friend Lynn, took this lovely picture of herself on afro, happens be a perfect fit for the title of this post. Don't you just love a thick black hair?
So, this particular blog post is basically a "copy and paste" of few posts I shared on my twitter space in the past few days, underneath each of them is the official link to the actual post, feel free to visit, retweet and comment.
For in this space, I have loved, cried and aired my heart as though I was seated in a room with a therapist:
My memory card stopped working, my books, pictures and videos, gone...😪
I've been through this phase before though.
I tell myself, "I shouldn't be this attached to pictures, books and videos. It shouldn't hurt this much."
But here I am moping 😥
when are you gonna tell her you've got a playlist saved in her name, and it's on repeatt! ✨🎵🎶
“My love is wider than Victoria Lake
Taller than the Empire State
It dives, it jumps
I can't give you more than that…”
seated across, the therapist asked that I sketch anything I felt best represents my life.
"It's broken", I said.
She heaved, "That's why you're here, to fix it, remember?".
"I mean the pencil, it's broken..."
Then Fela died not long after, and I watched Gozie silently grieve for a man he'd never met.
— Tomorrow I Become A Woman
(Aiwanose Odafen)
Look how I sit by my phone
waiting for you to call
maybe I dream too much,
maybe I'm not content, maybe.
We never stopped being poets
when we put the pen down
I miss you, not the miss-miss.
you know the kind where you've got someone on your contact list but you don't call, not because you can't but cause things aren't like
they used to be...
That's how I miss you.
“Purple Hibiscus for me is about nostalgia - it’s a sort of romanticised remembering. I wrote it in my early twenties, when I was in college in Connecticut. I was very homesick, it was the middle of winter, and I just started writing because I wanted to remember home…” — CNA
another day to peel myself off
the bed... and work till sundown.
I am tired and my tired is hanging on a thin thread😓
You notice the strand of grey, her hair seemed to have grown less thicker than the last time you visited, but you smile...
"I'll grow my hair for both of us",
"What...?" she chuckled.
"Nothing, just a line from a poem.
I've missed you."
She blushed.
You pull her in for a hug,
"Merry Christmas, mummy..."
I hope this meets you well. I'd love to know which of the post resonated with a phase in your life (past, present or future).
Leave a comment, would you...
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This is beautiful, Nabas. Is anything you write not?
ReplyDeleteAww... Thank you Kanky🥰
DeleteGod when 🤧
ReplyDelete