It’s that time again , when my body floats in the air,  as if a piece of   string was holding me up.

Although i walk briskly down the road ,i cannot feel my feet, my eyes are wide open but yet i cannot see. I hear nothing too…no i hear the wind or is it the air chasing something i cannot fathom.

These days, there’s no motivation to wake up, its always a terrible struggle to get-up-from-the-bed , and so the act of living has become a tedious duty to perform.

I have lost appetite for living ooh,

even Abena’s horrible singing in the shower  irritates me no more,

even mama’s dawadawa jollof rice has lost its taste in my month,

can you imagine, that, i can even stand the nauseating  smell of aunt Fatima’s mysterious  concoctions  she calls cocktail.

even the smile of the tall-dark-handsome man next door means nothing to me.

And so on December 31st , when most young women are preparing to go to church (which is just to deceive God) because they would later lie down with their legs open praying to other god . I go around and around in circles searching for a manual -on-living , hoping that perhaps some angel up there somewhere would pity me enough and drop down on earth a detailed- to-do-list or manual that would show me how to live.

because i no longer know how to live,

i have forgotten, how, it is to live,

was i once living? Please do tell me;

what is food for?

what are clothes meant for?

is bathing necessary?

how do i smile or laugh?

how do i pray? and to whom would i be praying to?

Today , January 1st, i make an effort to live only because i am beginning to  frighten people;they avoid me like a plague. And so now, i pretend to live by;

talking more , so people wouldn’t notice how dead i am,

smiling and laughing , so people would think…hey- how- happy- she- is,

i now eat and eat, although i know not the difference in the taste between bitter leaves and lettuce,

nor whether a trouser was meant to be wore from the top-to-the down or from the down-to-the-top,

i bath and bath, pouring buckets of cold  water on my head…. i do not know whether cold is  hot or hot is cold,

is this is a temporary state of death? a sort of punishment?

i browse the Internet 24/7 , i roam the streets, i search the oldest archives of the library, i  ask around…..but nothing , no one , not even the mighty  Mr. Google knows THE-ACT-LIVING

i practice yoga,

read Ben Carson’s gifted hands,

speak to myself in the mirror,

get laid  with a few useless guys,

Nothing , absolutely nothing helps!



I met him once on a popular social media. He was tall and lanky, his body covered in hair reminded me of my soft smooth night blanket. He wore a bright smile just like his eyes wore a coffee-colored medicated reading glasses.And when he smiled… eeiii pooh! his smile broke the chains  lock around my heart just like that! We messaged hi’s and hello’s here and there, i looked up his pictures and i saw his swag! Darm the boy got it!

And then that lonely rainy day when GOD became so angry that he poured the whole heavens down like boom boom! I mastered courage and dialed his number…ring ring, he picked!

“HELLO?”  his voice thundered above the  sound of the rains. My heart skipped a beat and i nearly suffered a heart attack.

“hi, Ebo? ” i whispered , “are you okay? i mean i am…”

“who’s this?” 

“the girl. No ,the woman you spoke to on. NO,  i mean your facebook friend, we chatted about lions and  and..”

“WHAT?” His voice roared.

“Sweetheart who’s that on the line?” I heard her clear  and loud. i dreaded her smooth silky heavy british accent. You could tell she flown first class and wore victoria underwears and that she was the type that wore high heels even to the bathroom; the reason why i hated her the more.

“some crazy girl maybe,” i heard him said.

” Put that damn phone down! and let’s make some love!” it was an ordered, she just ordered him like that; my man. I slipped to the floor imagining what that  wicked -mean girl was doing to my man, my man ooh!

my man


It’s coming again! That so call feeling of sheer loneliness. My eyes are tired from shedding tears, my heart is fedup of offering excuses,and my soul is drained from waiting.
It’s coming, it’s coming… That dreaded feeling of been all by-myself-again. When would i also experience the passionate kisses, the love notes and the flowers.
It’s coming, that terrible feeling of having-failed-again, of having no hope, not even faith.
It’s coming, it’s coming.