The Death of Sandra | Basit Soliu
She kept fighting and struggling until there was no more strength left in her.
She kept fighting and struggling until there was no more strength left in her.
Hold on mama, before you lampoon me with one of your proverbs. Remember how you normally boast of the coral beads, well adorned Taffeta and Aso-Oke, you even said they could embellish a common girl into a queen. I wouldn’t like to suggest the extinction of coral beads and your favorite combination, but it seem the fashion among ladies now is jewelry
cessions. Outside is the stench of Oshodi; inside, however, is an almost perfect confluence of several scents—and a man whom I sat next to who smelled like camphor.
While the police are still searching for the gang and the mole in their midst, the town still craves the peace it once knew.
You can’t imagine being summoned when you’re already about to sleep. As you block out the noise in your room and prepare to sink into sleep’s soothing embrace, a female soldier’s voice pierces the air like an arrow: “Lights out!” Everyone scrambles to their beds. In that moment, you realize serving your father’s land will challenge you.
She muttered, “You’re lucky the world doesn’t have to learn about us through the kaboom of an atomic bomb that wrecks a whole civilization into ruins—you are lucky you can find a smile easily.”
And those who aren’t lily-livered had exhausted their voices in an attempt to liberate themselves.
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