The past few weeks have been weird. Every Thursday night for about a month, I’ve sat in front of my computer, unsure of what to write about. I’m not out of ideas or topics. It’s just — I’ve felt: what’s the point of anything? Of dreaming and being young and living in Nigeria, and of course, writing this newsletter. Everything has seemed so completely pointless.
In the middle of it all, I wrote a short story that I felt I should share — even though I’m desperately afraid of getting plagiarized — so please don’t share elsewhere. It’s not based on any real event — even if you might think it is. It is based on a question that has haunted me for a while: the man who died in the protest in Surulere, his hands were in his pockets in the video circulating social media the day he died. I wondered: what were in his pocket?
Again, PSA It’s unpublished and unfinished and who knows what’ll happen with it, but enjoy and have a good weekend, but do not share the story elsewhere. ❤️
Thanks for sharing. Well done. Keep hope alive, because that's most likely the only impetus we have.