Setting forth at dawn
No one is born fully-formed: it is through self-experience in the world that we become what we are.”
― Paulo Freire
She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning against the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”
JD Salinger
I realized that people like me, girls with skin the color of chocolate, whose kinky hair could not form ponytails, could also exist in literature.”
Chimamanda Adichie
the African woman is old beyond her years; she is half-naked; her drooped and withered breasts are well exposed; there are flies buzzing around the faces of her children; and she has a permanent begging bowl in her hand.
Ama Aita Aidoo
The scariest moment is always just before you start.” –
Stephen King.
“Nbo ní Odeda?” the old woman asked, but I did not answer. Instead I pulled out a microchip my mother had given me last night. It was a description of her sister’s shop in Odédá, Ajòké Alámàlá. She instructed me to show it to anyone who asked me about my destination in Odeda or anyone I encountered along the way if I seemed lost. The old woman relaxed her back, her lips moving silently as she read to absorb the information. This reassured me. I wasn’t merely searching for her response; I was accepting that what was happening to me wasn’t incidental, and whatever was to follow was deliberately planned by my parents.
The memories came differently. Some bitter, some I enjoyed, while some still annoyed me. A combination of the three made me a kind of child I never wished I should be. It all began the day Tunde was thrown into the river behind the street.
My Bio
A storyteller. Kehinde writes stories on her experiences growing up in her hometown. Due to her writing style and attitude to creativity, her storylines appeal to both children and young people, and she was able to do this by reminding the world of happy childhood memories.
Bio
Even though the rain always makes me lazy, I love the smell of it. I love it when there is an earthy smell in the air just before it begins to rain. it is an art!
Favorite Thing
retelling my childhood stories before the night crawls in
Sometimes, I imagined she was one of those women in this street, like the fruit seller at the junction of the untarred road whom a pregnant woman fought last night for hosting her drunk husband into her house for three days. Or the seller at the end of the street who always asked me to help her bring her two daughters home from school. She worked tirelessly to support her children after her husband left home for four years.
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“Nbo ní Odeda?” the old woman asked, but I did not answer. Instead I pulled out a microchip my mother had given me last night. It was a description of her sister’s shop in Odédá, Ajòké Alámàlá. She instructed me to show it to anyone who asked me about my…
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