(I have been doing a lot of self-evaluation and meditation lately, and after a “rush of blood to the head” a week or so ago, I decided to put down the thoughts flowing from that introspective train in their rawest form. This mental process would go by the name “Soapy Wanklot’s Confessionals.”

The alphabets will be turned out as they appear in my head, they will be numbered, and while they may seem formless, it is hoped that they resonate, at the very least, with one person out there.)

What am I supposed to say to you?

In the end, the art is separate from the man. Selling out arenas and bagging endorsements do not cancel out lack of responsibility.

All my friends had reservations about you.

Nightmares know all too well how to dress up like Daydreams.

He is cool enough to have his posts ‘liked’, maybe even have brief chats with….but not desirable enough to hang out with, not attractive enough to burn out 48 hours with (“him too get wahala “)

I know you were just curious.

OK we get it, Travis Greene sang in Igbo. Can we move on already?

Again, Marijuana is not a hard drug.

“You lack ambition “, she said, as she stormed out of the restaurant in Enugu that fateful Saturday afternoon. The meatpie got ignored by my taste buds. Five and a half years, a book and a bunch of changed jobs later, I wonder if she’s probably right.

There’s no such thing as “laying with a feminist”. I think we can all engage in trysts without attaching labels to moans.

I know you’re happy and all in your husband’s house, but I’m still searching for a body to fit perfectly into that white ‘indoor’ t-shirt the way yours did.
Per usual, I was a douchebag.

Maybe no one is replying because you’re dead and the number texting them is strange, maybe your spirit is now in someone else’s body, maybe you now bear a different name, maybe you have been interred and you’re now on another existence…