Yewande Omotoso

The way green leaves turn brown together and fall from trees, let's grow old together.

The way blossoms curl up and their colours softly stir:

let's grow old and die together.

The way green leaves turn brown together and fall from trees, let's grow old together.

The way blossoms curl up and their colours softly stir:

let's grow old and die together

‘Bom Boy!’ my father would say after we'd planted the yam saplings.

That was his nickname for me and it made me feel warm and part of something. Pidgin English for baby boy.

Parents never answered the important questions.

It's so loud here, I can hardly think. Sometimes I can't feel myself. I mean I can't hear myself. I don't know if I'm making sense. The sound of this place is ugly and crude and grating. I can't sleep at night.

She'd never been able to answer the question for herself, whether she was beautiful or not.

I've worked very hard and tried many things but I am still uncertain about a way out of “darkness”.