It was so many moons ago, I came out the front door and into the dark night, I was lost, in a haze.

I’d spent the day polishing mother’s adobe floor.

‘Mother’s adobe floor’ father always called it.

“Ada, I built the posts and the roof and the walls but everything that touches the floor your mother owns” He always said

My mother had laughed again and scolded me for trying to get my father’s permission after she had told me I couldn’t go to Chika’s father’s compound.

I had just turned thirteen and I wanted to see everywhere and everything. I knew our compound like I knew my name – the forked posts that carried the roof so high we had upper level room, the obi right at the entrance where father met his guests and mother’s spacious kitchen yard, I’d explored every crevice and opening and carving that I was sure I could draw them from memory anytime.

Aguije they began to call me – Wanderlust, for how I like to take long strolls and make up stories about faraway lands I wish I could see.

But I wanted more.


Click the link to continue reading a story I wrote featured on the West Colony website.

An extension of a Twitter story of mine, it is inspired by Nigerian traditional architecture, good books and a yearning to see the world.





  1. Hello Juachi,

    I clicked and read the rest of the story, it has a “things fall apart”-ish vibe which I find nicely comfortingly familiar.

    It read like the prologue of an epic book.

    As always, written beautifully.

    Well done!

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