I remember passing through a small town and noticing this small boy sitting outside a shop filled with a few products. The street was busy with people, keke(s), cars moving their way through narrow ally ways and this kid seemed to escape from all the chaos through writing.
He reminded me of myself as a child. Writing, specifically poetry saved my life. I was surrounded by chaos, the suffocating grip of poverty, the relentless grasp of low self-esteem, the unwavering hold of a young mother's depression. So I stayed out the way and I wrote. I escaped through the pages. I found solace within the comfort of my poetry. Besides, no one could tell my story better than me.
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