A towering 12-foot bronze sculpture of a Black woman, a new installation titled “Grounded in…
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The Elizabeth Longford Prize for Historical Biography has announced its highly anticipated shortlist for 2025,…
As the beloved Sir David Attenborough celebrates his 99th birthday, his dedication to the natural…
The 32nd African Film Festival New York (AFFNY) is set to showcase The Man Died,…
The Durban FilmMart Institute (DFMI) has announced the official selection of 31 diverse film projects…
I remembered Nigeria in snatches; roofs of houses overlapping each other, lying like broken china in the sun in cities that suffer from insomnia. Storey buildings where churches and plazas are attached like appendages with speakers raised to alarming decibels vying for the right to make you deaf. Noise was a way of life.
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In an unprecedented move that spotlighted two entertainment giants, the Golden Globes celebrated Viola Davis…
While my journalism career has taken a bit of a backseat, I would say my general writing career is still in a good place. I’ve been writing a lot in transit, on the bus, on the tram. Because I don’t have as much time to do so when I’m settled at home, between schoolwork and adulting tasks like having to prep my meals. But it’s okay because public transport here is conducive for that. I am not hindered by uncomfortable heat or guarded about being on my phone on an unsafe street.
After our COVID-19 Preparedness Group developed a detailed plan, the problem of funds arose. We submitted our plans and budget to the Minister of Health, who was supposed to pass it on to the President. Days turned into weeks, yet nothing.
There wasn’t anything I feared more than Mum’s talks. They could be like the repotting. Anything could land on you
My father left me everything: his library, his Christian Women Mirror magazines, his face and the memory of his disappointment the first time I told him I wanted to be a writer. I remember the evening well.