I’m writing this letter without addressing it to you, because it’s being written for you, to you, and without you, for you’re not here to read it. The pencil called me this evening – the white one with the chrome … Continue reading
Dedicated to the man who drank three cans of beer, one after the other, on the train back from Brighton. Continue reading
A composition about a lonely outstretched hand… Continue reading
She had a lovely round face and a smile that left twinkles in his eyes – completely lovable. She was 5. And him? He just wanted a little fun; a little release. Continue reading
This is the story of a girl, who smiles to the world, with teeth as bright as pearls, playful with the young and old. She was grasped while still tender, placed into skin that didn’t fit her, and played a role that she was only half able to act out. Continue reading
An evocative award-winning short story that’s moved hearts and caused eyes to tear. One dream, two children and immeasurable heartache. Continue reading
They say that a name can say a lot about a person, while others believe that it is nothing but that which one’s parents were inclined to call you. This is a creative non-fiction piece about my name, which – in Yoruba – means ‘wealth surrounds me’. Continue reading
May 1st
You might like to call my disappearance a hiatus, I’d much rather call it trying to sort out my head and the buzz of activity that was swirling within it, leaving me feeling deliriously hopeless. Am I fixed? No, I wouldn’t say that, but I know that I’m no longer completely broken, and feel as though I’m on the mend.
It’s strange that at my lowest point I was unable to pick up my pen and scrawl all that was swelling within and around me. For 3 months my pen faltered with each uncertain beat of my heart, as though it would give up trying to keep me here at any unannounced moment. And it was that fistful of flesh that taught me the most important lesson of all: not everything is in my hands.
His blue-green eyes blinked at the grey dot next to her name, the same grey dot he was faced with every time he logged on. Offline. He sighed, causing a ripple in the middle of his laptop screen. He wished to blow away the stagnant cobwebs that had been woven over his mind, that left him unable to think about anything else but her. His to-do list grew, and yet he waited for the grey dot to turn green. For her to re-enter his domain.
On his phone, he pressed and held the speed-dial key for her number. He pressed hard, hoping that the harder he pressed the more successful his call would be. And yet, as on his previous attempts, there was no ring tone. Just a dead line.
Maps are laid for strategic planning, and her contour is but a map for the next grope, a quick poke, a hurried squeeze. Points of interest that feed his disease; a malady that has chewed all traces of self-dignity and every nuance of a sense that’s common.
© LaYinka Sanni, February 2012
