Lost and Found (VIII)

Hello family! I apologize for missing out on last Monday’s post. I was trying to get my feet into the new year while retaining my balance at the same time. It took some effort and I lost track of time. I hope the year has been looking good for you? Now, let’s get to the post of the day. Don’t forget to leave your kind feedback.

Love always,



“Maybe it’s not about having a beautiful day, but about finding beautiful moments. Maybe a whole day is just too much to ask.”

-Anna White

Miss Solaye Ayodele, is it? He asks, his voice sounding as uninteresting as he looks.

Yes sir.

Good to meet you, have a seat please.

Thank you sir.

So tell me about yourself?

I am a graduate of accounting from…

I see that in your resume, tell me something that’s not in it.

Err… I weigh 57kg.

Is this a joke?

What, no? I actually weigh 57k…

The job, is it a joke?

No. Oh God, no.

Good. So come back when you are ready.


Have a good day Miss.

That’s when you wake up to the sound of the morning crow. It is a dream; a bloody dream, yet you shiver. The initial plan before the dream, had been to go to Mr Tunji’s office after your CDS programme, but now, you are not sure if you will be doing that, or if you should. So for each step that you take from your bed post to the kitchenette to perform your morning water-drinking ritual, you chant “go”, “don’t go”, “go”, “don’t go”, “go”, “don’t go”…

By the time you reach the kitchenette, your right foot marks the end of your journey, and the Universe says “go”. You breathe a sigh of relief and set about preparing for the day.


When you bump into Tolu during CDS, just after all PET members assemble to sign the attendance sheet, your heart skips a beat. Since the date night, you had neither been able to see nor speak with him. A part of you wants to ignore him, and in fact, you almost do—until he smiles. He has the nerve to smile at you?!

“You owe me an explanation Tolu” you say to arrest his attention before your voice leaves you completely.

“H-hey Girl! Goodness, it’s been a while. Good to see you again.”

Really? Good to see you again?!

“I will not exhaust my energy playing it cool with you boy.” You start, again, more pumped with energy than before “It’s not good to see you again, and I know you wish you had not bumped into me today too, but well, life is a bitch! So! Here is what we will do… we will suck our detest for each other up, and converse like adults for some five minutes, and we will be fine. We will forget we ever met, or had that dinner date, or kissed goodbye and then fumbled at playing strangers. All I want to know is why you ghosted on me.”

“I—See—I am sorry, okay? I have just been busy.”

You smile, a smile so questioning it almost hurt. “Busy? I don’t have anything against you not picking my calls or returning them. Obviously, it was on purpose; and it’s fine, because you decide who you talk to and who you stay away from. I just want to know. Because after that night, there were days when I sat questioning myself; days when I wondered if there was something wrong with me, you know? You pursued me for so fucking long, disturbed half the town to get my number, and just when I decide to give in—when I decide to stop being afraid that you have been lying to me all the while, you bolt. What if I had had sex with you?”

“Grace, calm down okay? I am sorry you felt that way, sorry I made you feel that way. You are a wonderful person and I somehow realized that you deserve more than anything I can ever have to offer you. It’s not you, it’s me.”

The line, that cliché over-used-over-sized-shut-me-up line, steal words from your mouth.

You stand, regarding him in silence for a few seconds, unsure of what else to say; uncertain if there is even any need to say more. You conclude that all that has to be said has been said. So you leave. You don’t say goodbye. He doesn’t deserve it.


The interview, surprisingly, went exceptionally well—or so you think; at least, instead of the usual “we will get back to you shortly”, his final parting words had been “I have had an excellent time chatting with you lady. Make sure to call me as soon as you are done with service, just before you travel, is that okay?” What could be better?! Although a part of you feels your success had a lot more to do with Gbenga’s referral than your own wit and smart mouth; you are pleased with yourself nonetheless.

Once you reach home, you switch on your phone to call Gbenga and thank him again for the opportunity. The number of messages that stream in, in quick successions, almost overwhelm you. Most are from your sister. You had completely forgotten that you had both been talking about something before you switched off your phone two nights ago. So, you call her first. It rings through the first time, but she disconnects the call. You try a second time—

“It’s selfish of you to just go off like that whenever you feel like it”, she says in response to your “hello”.

“I am sorry”, you reply, knowing she has every right to be mad at you.

“Are you? Really? That’s what you say every time Grace but sorry doesn’t always fix things. In fact, it doesn’t fix shit. I am sure that’s what you told Gbenga the other day—”

“You know what Temi? I will talk to you when you get over whatever it is that’s eating you out. I honestly can’t do this now. Call me when you are fine.” That’s what you want to say, but what you say instead is “I am sorry sister Temi” because you are a Yoruba girl, because you are an African, because where you come from you are allowed to be mad but not allowed to show it—even when you are not the only one who has done something wrong, especially when the other person who has inflicted hurt on you, or at least attempted to do so, is older than you. She honestly had no right to bring Gbenga into this.

“Mummy wants to talk to you.” She says.

That comes to you as a surprise. You had not expected your mother to have visited your sister on a Wednesday afternoon. Or your sister to have visited your mother out of the blues. Plus you are terrified. Does your mother know already? But you say “okay”, followed by “good afternoon mummy” as soon as you perceive the exchange of the mobile phone from one hand to the other.

“What is good about the afternoon?” comes her response; sharp, injurious to your eardrums, African. You imagine that if you had been in her presence, that question would have been conferred with a smack across your face. You are thankful for barriers.

“Ma? Sorry I haven’t been in touch ma. I have been busy, and not feeling quite well too—“

“Why will you not “have been busy and not feeling quite well too”? When all you now spend your time on is boys.”

Wait, what?! Boys? You know it’s your land-lady who has called your mother but you say “I don’t understand ma.”

“You cannot understand and you will not understand. Asiri e ti tu si mi lowo bayii. Today it’s a black boy that visits, tomorrow, it’s a fair one, shebi? Sha don’t bring any nonsense disease into this house o, and don’t bring shameless pregnancy like your sister here, if you don’t want me to disown you. God will help you, and your husband will not bring gifts to the house after the first night together because he did not meet you a virgin, wa so pe oo mo mi ri. I cannot have you children behaving unruly as though you do not have upright parents to emulate! What the hell is wrong with you?”

You are red with rage, and thick sick.

You want to say “—but it’s only two men that have ever visited.” You want to say “—and I have never had sex with any of them, even though I almost did, once.” You want to say “what’s the point anyway? What’s the point of being a good girl, playing it safe, and keeping the hymen safe until you meet Mr Right? How has it helped you, if after all of your good-girlness, your husband doesn’t respect you enough to keep his shit together? If your husband can stoop so low to do it with the maid.” You want to ask “how did you end up so unlucky after doing all the right things” but you say nothing.

“I hear your POP is on the 28th.” She continues after a brief pause, “I have booked a ticket for your return on the 29th. See you then. Odabo.

You hand feels like rubber, limp, as you attempt to put the phone down. It must have been all that energy radiating from mama’s voice that got you exhausted. Now, you just want to lie in bed and close your eyes until sleep finds you.

But what finds you is worse—or maybe it is you that found it.

Because staying still in bed proved more hectic and unachievable than you imagined as snippets of that once you almost had sex with Gbenga flooded your mind and left you thirsty with want, you picked up your phone to call Gbenga. You wanted to call Sam. You wanted to think about Sam touching your body and lighting your nerves on fire, but it was Gbenga that came to mind, because Sam has never attempted to kiss you, much less touch you such that his hands linger and leave an etch, a memory—and for someone who can live with a Friends With Benefit relationship, you wondered why it had never crossed his mind.

So, you called Gbenga. But his phone rang endlessly, and as the rings stretched on, so did your wanting and worry and uncertainty and anger. Restless, you logged back into FaceBook, after so long, and attempted to stalk him. You had blocked him before, two years ago, after the break-up because you didn’t want to remember him or be remembered by him. But there was hardly a need for that anymore. You wanted to know how he felt about what transpired between you both the last time you saw, maybe he would have ranted about it (although it is very unlikely that he would), maybe he would have left a hint. His page, however, left nothing recent to commit to memory, or anything to massage your emotional turbulence, as his last post was dated two months ago and it was a tag to a football game; but just before you closed the webpage, you saw something that stayed with you. His relationship status showed that he is married, and his engagement day cover photo, and the gorgeous child on his profile picture bore witness to the new revelation that now sting the back of your eyelids.

As you sit back in bed, deciding which emotion to feel, you wonder when he was going to tell you about it, if he was going to tell you about it.


© The Short Black Girl, 2018.



Lost and Found (VII)

To all my kind readers and followers of this story, here is a big thank you for the encouraging comments, for taking out time off your busy schedules to engage with me and offer your thoughts about the characters. Thank you.

And happy holidays! ❤


“There is stability in self-destruction, in prolonging sadness as a means of escaping abstractions like happiness. Rock bottom is a surprisingly comfortable place to lay your head. Looking up from the depths of another low often seems a lot safer than wondering when you’ll fall again. Falling feels awful.

I’d rather fucking fly.”
Kris Kidd

Source: Goodreads

You hear a noise. It sounds like laughter, and it’s coming from him. You are not sure whether to join him at first, because how is this a joke? But the intensity of his demeanor and the awkwardness of the moment overwhelm you and soon, you join him. In seconds, you are both seated on the kitchen floor, half naked and laughing—but you are not sure why.

“I don’t know how this is a joke Gbenga.”

“B—” he laughs “But—” more laughter. “If this isn’t a joke, I honestly don’t know what is.” More laughter.

“Gbenga, let’s get serious. Really.”

“Se—” laughter. “Serious? Okay, okay…” cough. More laughter. Cough. Straight face.

“You are hurt.”

He looks at you; his eyes, blank.

“Gbenga, please talk to me.”

“I am not hurt. I am sad. Sad and weak. Not anywhere close to hurt.”

“Talk to me, please.”

“There’s nothing I have to say that you haven’t heard before Grace.” He smiles “I just hope he makes you happy.”

“We are not dating.”

“—yet. You are not dating yet. Just make sure he makes you happy. I want you to be happy.”

“I am sorry Gbenga.”

“Me too.” He kisses you on your forehead, and stands up to leave. “I should send you Uncle Tunji’s number. Don’t forget to make an appointment before seeing him. I think you will like working with him. He is a great guy!”

He stops at the door and turns to look at you one last time “Take care of yourself and stop brooding about life. It has its ways, okay?”

You are speechless, and tears are welling up in your eyes. How did you end up hurting a good man twice? You continue to stare at the door after he leaves. The feeling that overwhelms you is unsettling. You need to talk to someone but your tears won’t let you, so you chat your sister up.

Me: I caught dad cheating with the help.

TemiDolls: Wait, what?

Me: It was the weekend before I travelled to Camp, I… *delete*

Me: He was… *delete*

Me: I did not want to mention before. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it or who to tell first, but it’s been eating me up inside and I just hurt Gbenga a second time and I feel so terrible about everything: life, love, everything. I am a terrible person. And maybe it’s not me, you know? Maybe it runs in the blood. Having something special in your life yet doing everything to not deserve it. Why do I always push good people away? Why do I always hurt the ones that love me? Why do things have to be so complicated?!

TemiDolls: Baby, calm down. Should I call you?

Me: Yes… *delete*

Me: No, *delete*

You switch your phone off and have a good cry. You soon fall asleep on the cold kitchen floor.


You leave for work very early on Monday, so that you don’t run into Sam on your way to the bus station. You listen to upbeat music on your Mp3: Korede Bello, Mayorkun, Asa, Simisola. You do everything you can to push the weekend behind, and immerse yourself in work all morning. Lucky for you, it’s the busy time of the year, working papers are being compiled and reviewed for all clients and everyone’s hands is on deck to finalize audits before December rolls in with its many holidays.

Soon, it’s lunchtime. There is a lot of unusual movement everywhere, and everyone seems to be talking at the same time but you do not suspect a thing until you see Gbemi run outside the office and back inside almost immediately. You rush after her and realize the cause of the panic is coming from Sam’s station. There is a cluster of people outside his open door. He is on the floor, coughing ceaselessly, struggling to breathe; his face contorted in wrinkles and sweat. You want to go inside but someone shouts at you to stay back because he needs space and air.

You are terrified. You watch Gbemi insert an inhaler into his mouth.

“It’s okay baby. Easy. Easy. You’ll be fine. Easy.”

It takes some minutes but his cough soon subsides, and his breath becomes steady. Gbemi massages his back, and he rests his head on her shoulder, helpless. A tear escapes from your left eye, you quickly brush it aside.

“He will be fine.” You hear Gbemi announce from inside his office. “He just had an asthma attack.”

He had asthma?! I didn’t know o.

What if no one had been around to help him, na so hin go just die?!

It was me that saw him naw.

Its God that saved us o.

The last time it happened to one of my cousin’s sister’s brother ehn, it was at a family party and…

Sorry o

Take care bruh

Thank God Gbemi knew what to do!

Unnecessary chatter and consolatory remarks follow one another as the crowd trickles down, until it is just you remaining. As you turn to leave, Gbemi catches your eye and asks you to wait. She rests Sam’s back against the table and meets you outside.


“Hey. Well done. Thank you for keeping him alive.” You try for a smile.

She turns to look at him briefly before responding. “You know, Sam and I have been friends for about four years now; so more than anything, he is family to me. I don’t know about you, but where I come from, you do whatever you can to keep the great friends in your life forever. Sam really likes you. Don’t use me as an excuse to hurt him.”

You are lost for words.

She shoves her head through the door to his office now. “Hey papi, you are better now? I will check on you later.”

You watch him nod at her retreating figure with a smile, then he waves at you.

You walk in and shut the door.



“How are you now?”

“Alive. Please seat.” He smiles.

You smile too. “I was scared.”

“Me too.”

“I didn’t know you had asthma.”

“There is a lot we haven’t talked about.”

“Yes… I was going to get lunch.”

“Yes, me too. Well, before life happened.” He laughs and it sounds like a terrible cough.

You wince. “I could have lost you Samuel.”

“But you didn’t.” he smiles

You take a deep breath to steady your thoughts. You do not want to say too much and you do not know how much is enough to show him that you care. That you want him in your life much as he wants you. That you like him too but you are emotionally unstable. That you want him to stay.

“We still have some time for lunch.” He offers, slicing through your thoughts, and you are thankful for the intrusion.

“I will get us something from the cafeteria, and bring it upstairs.”

“That would be very kind of you.”

“Sure! What would you like?”

“Anything you are having.”

You smile. “Don’t hate me if you don’t like it.”

“I like you already and I like it here. No going back from where I am standing.”

You smile again. “If you say so.”

“I say, my lady.”


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.

Lost and Found (VI)

PS: This episode is a tad sexual, filter your eyes if you must. That said, thank you for following, and be kind enough to continue leaving your feedback. 😀


“There’s a trick to the ‘graceful exit.’ It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over — and let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving up, rather than out.”
Ellen Goodman

It took a lot of thought to prepare for his visit. What to cook, what to wear, what to shave and what not to. He arrives around 11:30am, a black giant of a man, fit and pleasant to the eyes, bearing a warm smile and a basket of fruits.

You smile as you usher him in, clumsily; not sure whether to go in for a hug or a limp handshake. He leans in for a hug and you are thankful to have applied your cologne generously on the spot behind your ears and round your neck.

“Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you for having me. It’s really so good to see you again. And you cut your hair! How could you?! You look beautiful nonetheless.”

You smile. “Thank you. And it’s good to see you too. Please come in and have a seat.”

“Thank you. And here, these are for you. Since you would not let me buy you lunch, I settled for these.”

Your eyes melt into mild surprise. “You did not have to Gbenga. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

You watch him scan for a chair meticulously. “Err, you can use the bed. I promise it doesn’t bite.”

He guffaws. “Well, I was just being a gentleman.”

“Don’t be him. Be yourself!” You stick your tongue out. He smiles and shakes his head.

“What would you like to have first? A glass of water, juice, snacks or the main course?”

“Err, I am not really hungry, give me something light.”

You laugh out loud. “Yeah right! Just give me a minute. Music?”

“Yes please. It is never not an option.”

“Any preference?”

“Since you are the host, I will let you surprise me. It had better be good.”

You laugh. The Gbenga you remember would do anything to listen to an Adele song. If he could watch her live, he would. You hope he is still the same as you remember, as you turn on the CD player and insert her 25 album which you bought just for this occasion only yesterday.

You disappear into the kitchenette before it starts to play. You hoist a pack of juice from the fridge, and an assortment of biscuits on a saucer. You set the main dish of jollof rice and fried chicken on another tray, and some of the fruits he brought on a third tray. You are miming to Hello, reaching for glass cups above the gas stove when you hear his voice behind you.

“Can I help?”

You blush. “I didn’t know you had left the room. So you have been watching?”

“Not exactly. I just walked in at the right time.”

“Thank you.”

You both cart the trays outside to the sitting room floor, where you eat in companionable silence watching each other over the glass of juice.

“The food is delicious.” He finally says, breaking the ice.

“Thank you.” You smile.

“If I had a dollar for every time you have said thank you, I would be stinking rich.”

“You laugh. My parents taught me well.”

“Apparently. So your CV, lest I forget… I talked to some of my contacts. An uncle who owns an Accounting firm has asked that you see him sometime this week at his office, but you must call to confirm he would be available to see you before making the trip down there. His firm is at Opebi, Ikeja.”

Your mouth is wide open. “Just like that?”

“Well, not quite. He isn’t particularly offering you a job yet, you know? But he has seen your CV and he thinks it would be worthwhile having a chat with you. All those Accounting application certificates you have, give your CV a brilliant edge. So you will always be at an advantage.”

“Always? I don’t think so Gbenga. Do you know how many applications I have sent in these past months? Over twenty, and no one has deemed it fit to reach back out! Not one company!”

“Well, I forgot to mention, I did a little re-work on your CV. Sometimes, it isn’t the content of the CV that immediately catches an employer’s eyes. I mean, there are tons of applications to look at, you know? On a daily basis! Imagine how overwhelming that can be! Although it is not a justifiable reason why they should not reach out to applicants, it is their typical safe landing space.”

Immediately, you reach out to hug him. Tears are beginning to well up in your eyes, and soon you are sobbing. He holds you until you are calm.

“Are you alright?”

You nod. ”It’s just that I am so grateful. You don’t know what I have been through Gbenga. There were days I felt un-achieving, days I felt like I wasn’t enough, like my inability to get an employer to invite me for an interview or whatever meant something was wrong with me. I was depressed for days, and had almost given up hope until yesterday. Thank you Gbenga. I am surprised you could do this for me after our history and I cannot thank you enough.”

He caresses your arm. “Hey, you didn’t do anything you did not have to do. You were going through a tough time then, and I understand it now; even though, I didn’t quite understand it then and said some hurtful things. Point is, we acted the way we thought best at the time but it doesn’t mean we loved less or didn’t love enough. Don’t feel sorry. It hurt me but I know it hurt you too. So, it’s fine. And you are enough. The fact that things don’t work out the way we want them to is not a reflection of anything but God asking us to wait for the better plan. God has got you, okay?”

You nod again, and try to hold back the fresh bout of tears waiting to break out. “I have missed you and I am sorry about how things ended.”

He smiles. “I have missed you too. I waited though, you know? Then, when you wanted space, you said you would reach out when you got yourself together. You never did. You changed your phone number and just went AWOL. I couldn’t visit because I did not know where you stay. Your friends did not have your number either. Wait, how… how do you do it? Just move on from people, events and things like that?”

You don’t know what to say, so you say you are sorry again. You pile the used dishes on the floor and take them back to the kitchen in batches. Adele is still doing what she does best singing “All I Ask”. He stands up to help against your protests. He is such a gentleman, he has always been. You wash the dishes together and replace them on the shelves and in the cupboards. And when you are done, he pulls you to a corner of the kitchen where you both stand face to face.

“Look at me Grace. You have been averting my gaze all day.”

You bite your lower lip, as you make yourself look at him.

“I have missed you. This face. Your warm eyes, your smile, everything.”

You smile. “I have missed you too.”

“I have missed you more.”

“I have missed you most.”

He laughs. “Oh, you want to play that game? Show me how much you have missed me.”

You are tempted to kiss him. You never know how to resist gorgeous boys with teasing beards and smiling eyes. Like him. Like Sam. But is it the right thing to do? You used to know him but you barely know him now, two years after. What if he is not the same as before? But again, who are you kidding? You know you want this. You prepared for it. After all that shaving, cologne time, and careful selection of underwear and a single-strapped dress gown, what did you expect? All that purposeful bum wiggling and shaking! Puhleese!

So you kiss him. And you remember how much you missed him those nights after the break-up. Your tongue scours his mouth clean, tasting corners, searching for hidden secrets of what went down since the last time. He breaks off the kiss, breathless.

“Damn! You—you have certainly missed me, but not as much as this…”

He is biting your ear lobes now, caressing the inside of your ears with his tongue. You close your eyes, and moan a little. His tongue strolls to your neck, some biting here, some biting there; then it travels downside to your bare chest, his hands pulling off your mono-strap as his eyes beg for permission. You grant him full access.

You are down to your underwear in no time, and you are thankful you had made a matching choice of panties and bra that morning.

“You are beautiful.” He whispers.

“Thank—“ he kisses your gratitude out of your mouth. One hand unstraps your bra expertly, and the other invades your panties. A finger slides in, and you scream in pleasure. He is watching you intently, watching you break apart under his command. You throw your head back, biting your lips, pinching your nipples to distract yourself from the pleasure you feel. His free hand covers your busy hand and his mouth claims the other nipple. You are on a roller-coaster of emotions, and as you approach Nirvana, you scream the one name that comes to your head.


Everything stops abruptly then, and the silence that follows is so fragile you fear your voice would break it if you speak.


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.

Lost and Found (IV)

So, I am back lovelies! Who missed me? Let’s get back to what Grace and Sam and the lot of the LNF peoples have been up to, shall we?! And yes, I have missed you too, sorely.


“Once you know some things, you cannot un-know them. It is a burden that can never be given away.”

-Alice Hoffman

You start Saturday early, after the flimsy dream about a rat sipping yogurt from the fridge wakes you up from your sleep. You gather your dirty clothes so you can get them to the laundry later in the day and scribble a set of to-do’s on a post-it note which you paste on your fridge for easy reference. You exercise to some music, and make some breakfast.

In the middle of breakfast, you have an impulse to call home, so you do. Your sister picks on the third ring.


“Hey Temi!”

“Solaye, is this you? Knawa o. What happened to your phone?”

“I got a new sim. I needed some space.”

“Space. Space abi? What or who did you delete this time o? The other time, it was that innocent boy Gbenga. What was it this time?”

You wince as you remember how you broke up with your last boyfriend because he would not understand your definition of needing space to deal with your mood rather than talking it through with him. He said you did not know the meaning of having a relationship. You said he didn’t know the meaning of respecting someone’s privacy. You broke up, and have not been with any other man since then, maybe the Universe’s way of punishing you for dealing a good man bad. That was two years ago.

“Anyway, I hope you are fine now?”

“Yes. Thank you. How are you? How’s Teejay, and Daniel?”

“We are doing well, oshey. Are you sure you are okay sha? Mum has been calling to ask if I have heard from you.”

“I figured. I am not ready for her questions jare. I hope she is good? And dad too?”

“Yes, they are well. They are already planning their anniversary and Christmas holiday. I think they are doing Kenya this time.”

“Good. I wish them luck.”

“Why so cold! Are they the cause of your predicament?!”

You laugh. “Abeg, no cold here o. Just wishing them normal good luck. Is that a bad thing? Anyway, it’s good to know you are good. I will talk to you later.”

“Okay ma. On this number? Abi, we should be expecting a different number soon?”

Na you sabi!

Toor, sha please be informing us before you spring surprise calls with foreign numbers on us. Some of us are averse to un-sexy surprises.”

You laugh and bid her off the phone. You are glad you called.

But Samuel hasn’t called all day. He would usually call, regardless of how nasty or unbelievable you have been to him, or send a message. You check your phone from time to time, still no luck; so you chuck up your pride and give him a call. Maybe you over-reacted.

He picks his call on the third ring. Everyone seems to pick the call on the third ring. Is it a thing?! You can hear the sound of music humming in the background. He must be driving.

“Where to?”

“Good morning to you too.”

You snort, then apologize. “Mabinu, good morning. Where to this early? It’s only 11:00am.”

“I am helping a friend move.”

“Right. I just thought to check on you.”

“Really? Very kind of you. Thank you Grace.”

You want to get off the phone. You hate the tone of his voice pregnant with sarcasm, his attitude. But you know you are the wrong one, so you apologize instead.

“About yesterday… I am sorry. Maybe I over-reacted.”

“I think you did Grace. But it’s okay. We do what we do for love.”

You chuckle. “So who’s this friend you are helping to move?”

“Err… you ask like you know all my friends.” He chuckles

You are in a rather splendid mood, so you persist. “Well, there is always a starting point.”

“If you insist you’d like to know, Gbemi is the one moving. I would have asked you to join but you haven’t been giving me too many chances of late.”

You freeze. Gbemi?! You don’t know why, but a pang of jealousy flits across your nerves. And quickly, you wish you could un-do the day, or un-know Samuel and the clingy details of his past relationship life. But if wishes were horses, you would not even be a part of a planet so full of human beings yet devoid of humanity.

“Have fun Samuel.”

“Wai—wh—“ but you don’t listen. You cut the call, switch off your phone and move on to other things, trying your best to keep distracted from the jealousy you feel. What temerity!

You visit Omolewa later in the day. Your dry-cleaner’s shop is located in the same area as her house so you decide to give her a surprise visit. She was your bunk-mate in the Camp, and closest friend of the lot you have made in Lagos so far.

“Grace!” she wraps you up in a fond embrace. You haven’t seen each other in three months but you would chat with her every now and then before you took that break off social media.

“Omolewa!” you respond in kind.

“Come in… sit, sit. What can I offer you? I am so so glad to see you. As if you knew I was having a boring day. I was thinking of coming to visit you one of these days sef because I have been unable to reach you. What’s up now?!” She hurries to the kitchen of the two-bedroom flat she shares with her flat-mate, Sandra. Before you can think of a preference, she is pouring juice from a pack of Five Alive into a glass cup. Shortly after, a saucer of peppered goat meat follows. You smile.

“You see, this is why I always like to visit. There is always something interesting happening in your house. Always. I wonder why one of those fine boys have not come to pay your bride price yet. 100 yards wife material!” She laughs.

“All this flattery because of food? FFO ni e!”

Iwo l’omo. Wey your roommate?”

She dey her boyfriend house. Until Monday.

Ehn ehn! Knawa o. Una children don spoil finish. E don pay bride price? Chai!

“Is it your bride abi your pricing? And what is all this bride-price talk sef? Has someone proposed?”

You laugh. She continues on a more serious note. “I cannot believe one year has come and gone so quickly sha. Those dreaded early morning exercises, mammy market escapades… now that it’s all over, it’s a whole new set of worries. Where to work? When to marry? Who to marry? How many children?”

“I guess there is no end to worrying.”

“This one that you are calm like this, got any plans?”

“Aside finishing this goat meat delicacy and sleeping? No ma.”

It is food that wee kuku kee you.” You both laugh. “But really, have you started applying? Or you have a job waiting for you already?”

“Yes, I have applied to a couple of places. And no, I don’t have a job waiting yet.”

“Boyfriend nko? How far that Ibe guy from Camp? And that Tolu guy from CDS?”

You shake your head. “I have not seen Ibe since after Camp. And I finally had a date with Tolu about three weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah! And you didn’t tell me, is that life?! So what’s up now? When is the wedding date?”

You laugh. “Wedding sha? The fool ghosted on me.”

“Ghosted on you how?”

“He stopped calling, and wouldn’t return or pick my calls since the date night.”

“His loss baby girl! His loss!”

“Cheers to that.” You raise your glass of juice to the air.

“There is this app though, Tinder. Been on it for a while now. Sandra introduced me to it. She said it is where she met her boyfriend, Ray.”

“You don’t say!”

“Well, I say! Will you will spend the night, so we can make some matches together?”

“Tempting, but I did not come prepared. You know.”

“It’s not this one day that you will wear one dress twice that will say you will not meet your future husband na, aunty! What if future hubby likes his woman looking like yesterday and God is just trying to use me to help you meet him?”

You laugh. You honestly do not want to go back home, because you know you will end up thinking about Samuel and getting madder over something you don’t understand. So you resign to fate and accept to stay the night.

She jumps up in delight. “Will you eat jollof for dinner?”

“Are you asking? That’s the only reason why I am staying. The food. You had better make it worth it.” You say, winking, as you spread out on the floor in front of the TV.

FFO ni e se.

“You said that before ma.”

She laughs, you unfurl. This should be fun


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.

Lost and Found (II)


Picture Source: Google, Quote culled from Nicola Yoon’s ‘The Sun is also a Star’.


You do not wake up until 12:00pm, sweaty with a full shot of headache. You are certainly taking the day off work. You look around your room now that sunshine streams in from the window side. Save for the pile of hair on the floor that greet your gaze, everything else appears serene, unperturbed. Your hair, dammit! You want to cry but you don’t. You are still in your work clothes from yesterday but a little less bitter about your life.

You clean up your room and take a long cold shower, basking in the sensations that seize you as water splashes on your scalp. Maybe cutting your hair wasn’t such a bad idea after all, you decide. You change into a short black dress and stay in bed for the rest of the day, shuffling between movies, and writing in your journal. You forget to eat.

Dear Diary,

Bad mood suffocates me like foul air sometimes. All it takes is one moment, a second and all the things going wrong or about to go wrong or I fear will go wrong crash in my face pooling tears in my eyes. Then I become full with grief, and wait to explode. I remember the choices I did not make and regret the ones I did. Yesterday, I had a major explosion. I am not sure what triggered it, but it surely came to fore after the call with Boma. And no, it’s not Boma, it’s me. I know it’s an overused line, but the truth cannot be over-sold.

With NYSC rounding off in a month, and me, still yet to hitch a job or find a man, I am constantly faced with the question of where my life is going and what the future would look like. A lot of my friends seem to have achieved a lot during this one year; some completed projects in their communities or at least kick-started it and now have something prestigious to add to their CV, some are getting married to boyfriends they met at Camp, some have jobs already waiting for them after service, some have hitched a boyfriend or two along the line and while it would hardly increase their job prospects, it affords them a husband material to take home to mama… and I am here, having nothing and too good for love, writing this self-pity journal, mildly wondering why my last date ghosted on me and when it will be my chance to get lucky.

I have tried dating but I have hardly ever gone past a first date—they say “We should certainly meet again sometime soon” but we never do. I have sent in application letters to too many companies and shared my CV with too many people, but the same response meets me: “we will get back to you shortly”. They hardly ever do.

But I know I shouldn’t do this: compare myself with others because each man to his own race course. So I am taking a break from other people’s lives. With social media applications gone, and a new sim in my phone, I can monitor what and who gets to me and meet my life where it meets me. Sometimes, we need to disconnect from people to connect with ourselves; and that is totally fine.  

It’s me; I know it’s all me. But even that knowledge is not satisfying. I need a breakthrough. 

Yours, the unmade adult child.

You sleep the rest of the day away until a knock finds you in your dreams. It is 6:30pm. You shuffle to the door of your en-suite apartment to find a worried Sam. You open the door to let him in.

“Goodness! Your hair!”

You make a short laugh and shrug his questioning gaze off. “How did you know my apartment?”

“And good evening to you too.”

You smirk. “Forgive my manners, good evening. Please have a seat.” You gesture towards the bed, the only “seat” in the house.

He takes a seat and makes a show of looking around your well-furnished apartment with approving eyes. “For a corper, I will say you have a high taste.”

“Let’s say I will do anything to make a strange place feel like home. So, how did you find me?”

“It was easy. I just had to ask for the gorgeous fair youth corper who lived here, and all fingers pointed towards your door. What happened to you?”

“Right!” you smirk “you forgot to add ‘fat’. What can I offer you?”

“An explanation. Come here and have a seat. Let’s talk about yesterday and your hair.”

 You roll your eyes. “Making orders in my own house? For a gentleman, I will say you have too much nerves.”

He smiles. “I do when I need to. Common now, sit. Please.”

You oblige him. “I was just unhappy is all. Nothing “happened”.” You emphasize “happened” by raising your fingers to put imaginary air marks.

“And your hair? A terrible accident?”

“Well, I wanted a new look.”

“For someone who has a good taste in interior décor, I will say you have a horrible fashion taste. You do know you have to visit the barber, right? You look unfinished…”

You laugh. “Thank you for the compliment and yes, I know.”

“So is this the reason you didn’t come to work today?”

“I wasn’t feeling very well. That’s the reason.”

“And your phone? Switched off. No one could reach you. We were worried sick. Everyone kept turning to me because they knew I was the last person that saw you. You could have called me Grace. You could have said something, or sent me a message. I kept sending you emails, you didn’t–”

“I am sorry Sam. I am sorry. I—I felt suicidal yesterday, okay? I just needed to get myself together.”

“Suicidal? And you say nothing happened?”

“I am fine now Sam.”

“If you wouldn’t talk to me, have you at least talked to someone about it?”

“Yes. I have.” You smile to reassure him that you are okay, but it is futile. His face looks flushed, his worry imminent. “Thank you for taking the pains to come see if I am okay.”

“I don’t know what to say Grace.” He looks away from you, shaking his head and twiddling with his car key.

“Say “you are welcome””

He smiles. You smile too. “Good to know you are fine anyway.”

“Yeah, glad I made it.” You check the time, it is almost 7pm and you begin to feel uneasy.

“Err, it’s getting late, you know?”

He looks up at the time, then at you. “Are you sending me off so soon?”

“Not that I don’t want you to stay, but I imagine you must have some things to tend to at home. I don’t want to keep you longer than you have to be here.”

“Don’t be too kind. There is nothing to rush home to. No dinner. No wife, or fiancee, or girlfriend.”

You blush. “Okay, let’s make you dinner before it gets too late”

You make Garri and Egusi for both of you, and you eat from the same plate which feels a tad sentimental. You start to feel a little too self- conscious in your short dress as you see his eyes roving every inch of your body.

“You know I like you, right?”

You smile. “Yes. You are too obvious about it.”

He laughs. “Well, good. And I know you like me too.”

Now, you are the one laughing. “You look like the kind of girl I would like to settle down with.”

“What? Is it you or the food? Mum always said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I never wanted to believe it, but now I am tempted to.”

He laughs. “But I am serious about this…”

“You don’t know me Sam.”

“I want to now.”

“If you knew me, you would change your mind. I would rather bask in the euphoria of this pleasant friendship we share now, than lose you—or well, the free rides home!”

He smiles. “What will make me hate you? Your impulsive change of taste and hairstyle? The history of how many boys you have dated and the ones whose hearts you have broken?”

“Yes. And my penchant for invading the souls of well-meaning men with my beautiful corruption.”

“Now I am scared…” he fakes a shiver, you laugh. “But I still want you. Your virus and beautiful corruption. I want to be invaded by you.”

You check the time again. 7:35.

“It’s late Sam. Plus I have to prepare for tomorrow. Figure out what to do with my hair and stuff.”

“I want you.” He insists, ignoring your efforts to send him off.

“Don’t want me Sam. I am not as pretty inside.”

“I don’t want pretty, I want Grace.” he winks.

You smile. “I don’t know Sam. Maybe we will revisit this after you get to know me better. Thank you so much for coming around, and keeping me company. Drive safely, okay? See you tomorrow.”

“Whatever you do with your hair, make sure you stay recognizable. Please.”

You laugh, as you shut the door after him. “I’ll try.”


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.

Secrets of a Virgin Girl (7).

See here for previous episode.


Hola fam! This is another long episode, but the last of the series, SOVG. Thank you again for all the feedback. You are amazing! I say we do this again, sometime soon. What say you?  😍😘😉😊



It is Sunday—the weekend after, and you toss lazily in bed, snippets of last night slipping into your head. You and Sogo had gone to have dinner at your parent’s as discussed last week. He had arrived at your house something around 4:00pm yesterday and you had both driven down to your parents Magodo apartment in time for dinner. Mama and Papa had received you both warmly. Papa had seemed thoroughly charmed, as he engaged Sogo in a variety of discussions of interest—his major preferences being Politics and the state of the Nigerian Economy. Sogo’s responses, you reckoned, had been well thought-out, bold and independent—of Social media retorts and comments; and in fact pleasing to Papa, as you noticed the glint of approval in his eyes. Mama, on the other hand, appeared a little undecided, maybe less so than when she first set eyes on him that evening; but undecided, nonetheless.

She had asked questions, which you considered too intimidating and embarrassing for a first meeting; and had time not been so short, she would have gone on indefinitely. “What do you want with our daughter?” “Do you feel intimidated by her success?” “Do you know she is a virgin?” The way Sogo had confidently answered her, though, did so much to put your mind at ease. By the end of the meeting, Papa’s warm handshake as he bid you both goodbye, assured you that Sogo had won Papa’s love. The impish smile on mama’s lips however, did not give away too much; but the way she had held your gaze assured you that you would hear from her soon. You had held her gaze with matching strength too, in a way that said you would be ready whenever she struck!

Her call comes in around 8:00am, steering you from your reminiscence. You were not expecting her call this early but you pick it nonetheless.

“Good morning ma” you address her, your voice thick with rebellion.

“Morning Lara. How are you today?”

“Fine ma” you respond impatiently. You wish she would just get to the point already and not try to soften you up.

“See, I know you are angry that I asked your friend so many questions yesterday, but that is what any good mother would do. I must know what my daughter is getting into, and assure myself that she has not let love blind her judgement of her man’s character, worth and capability. And I must say, he is one fine gentleman.”

Surprise steals over your face, as her kind words ebb at the remnants of rage that seat in the pit of your heart, effortlessly. You smile. “I know ma. Thank you ma.”

“In fact—“ she continues, “—your dad and I called Daddy-in-the-Lord yesterday night to inform him that his god daughter will be getting married. He was very excited, until he called this morning to tell us that he prayed about it and you cannot marry him.”

Your rage returns. Daddy-in-the-Lord is your godfather, a spiritual and very inspiring man whom you respect and revere so much. Your family has always consulted him every time there is a big decision to be made, and his suggestions and predictions have always proved right; although now that you think of it, no one has actually ever dared to prove him wrong.

“It is frightening enough that he is Muslim and from a Polygamous family—“ mama continues, undeterred by your silence, “—but if those were the only considerations we had to make, the decision would have been an easy one. Omolara, this is bigger than us. Daddy says you must cease all relations with him immediately, and that if you choose to proceed, the consequences are grave for your future as a family together.”

You are speechless now.

“See Lara, I know you love him. In fact, yesterday, it was so obvious that you both care for each other but there is too much at stake. All I want is your happiness, because automatically, it becomes my own happiness. And your father, and Daddy want the same for you too. We know you’ll be needing a lot of time to take this in, and get over him; but I want you to know that we care for you and we are here for you, and in God’s time, your miracle will come.”

You still do not say a word. Tears are brewing in your eyes now; and soon, they start to fall mercilessly. You let them. You do not believe in miracles anymore.

“Hello? Are you there?—Lara?—Lara?” You do not answer. “MTN sha! They have started again this morning! Lara?— ”

“Maybe you have exhausted your call time.” You hear papa’s suggesting voice underneath.

“Lara?” mama calls out to you one last time before cutting the call. Immediately, you switch your phone off and resume your tears in full gear. Why?! Why has love never worked out for you? It has either been that the ones you liked did not like you back, or you did not like the ones that liked you. Yet, the first time you eventually meet someone who cares for you as much as you care for him, you are told you cannot marry him. You wish now that you were in a movie, so that you could just put a daunting soundtrack like Simi’s Love don’t care or Chidima’s All I want is you to your life as you diss mama and tell her you will marry the love of your life whether she or anyone else likes it or not. But life, reality—is a little more complicated than all of that.

You love each other, but is love really worth sabotaging your future for? Would it not be selfish of love to ask you to pick short-term happiness over long-term sustenance and fulfillment? But then again, what is a fulfilling life without genuine love? You are confused and angry! Why? Why did God make you meet him? Why did He make you fall in love? Why did He put that sign in your way on that Sunday morning when you asked for His direction? More questions and no answer, and your rage intensifies. You force yourself to sleep now to douse your heart’s heat, hoping that maybe you will wake up to realize everything is a dream; no love, no heartbreak.

You wake up an hour and thirty minutes later to the reality of your woe, when the smell of something tangy fills your nostrils. You head out, puffy eyed to find Sogo in your kitchen, fixing breakfast.

“Good morning Sunshine!” he coos upon seeing you.

You break inside as it hits you that, perhaps, that is the last time you will hear that voice and see that smile. “Good morning–” you manage a smile “—I think we need to talk.” You continue, wasting no time.

You catch something that looks like fear pull his eyebrows together in a brilliant squeeze, but you do not let that deter you; as you recount the gist of the discussion you had with mama to him before you change your mind. Once you are done, for emphasis sake, you add, “We cannot continue seeing each other, Olorunsogo. And I am sure you understand that I am doing this for us.”

“So… so that’s it?” he questions, his voice spiralling higher and higher by the second “that’s—that’s it, right? After six months of love, courtship and friendship, you want to break up just like that, and you do not even care what I think or feel? You think I have not thought about our vast differences severally? You think I have not had people tell me to give us a rethink?  I have… but I have not been so quick to dismiss what we’ve come so long to build; something you obviously do not appreciate the gravity of!”

You are angry and surprised. Angry that he thinks it was an easy decision for you to make; surprised that he would speak to you in that manner, lashing words at you like a weapon. But you have not got time for words. You have not got the time or energy to explain to him how you wish he had never been a part of your life to start with, so you would not be in the dilemma of whether to rescue the moment or save a very uncertain future from some foretold danger. “Thank you for making breakfast. I would appreciate it if you leave as soon as possible. You do not have to tell me when you are going. I am sorry, and thank you.” You walk away from him now, but he pulls you back into a defeating kiss. You break down again, as you melt in his arms; renting apart in a fresh round of tears. He hugs you tightly, like he has never done before; like he will never do again.

“Omolara, you are a believer. Where is your faith at a time that we need it most? Why are you proposing a break up, rather than a prayer battle?”

Faith? Fighting? You wish he had not said a word so that maybe you could have stayed in his arms longer. You pull away now with resolute purpose, as you say your final words to him before leaving for your room “Goodbye Olorunsogo Martins. I hope you have a good life.” He does not try to stop you now. Even if he did, it would make no difference; because your mind is made up. In less than thirty minutes, you hear the loud bang of your front door, the sound of a vehicle being kicked into ignition, and the screeching sound of angry tyres or perhaps an angry driver.

And then, it dawns on you– he is going; he is gone. Your best friend, your first love. You remember the hope in his eyes, and how he had wished you would not end things so quickly. You remember the last kiss, and how you had wished it would go on for eternity. You soak up in tears. You miss him already. You feel like love has failed you; and maybe it has—or maybe it has not. Maybe you failed love. Maybe you should have fought.

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”

– Khalil Gibran


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.


I believe that one of the most fulfilling feelings in life, is knowing that at one time or another we touched somebody’s life, or gave them a slice of hope, an iota of belief, or a shade of light. I believe that, that is indeed one of our greatest gifts as humans, the ability to rub off on the people around us without even trying too hard. I hope that today, and everyday– in everything we do and say, and be; and everything else we choose to not do, say or be, that we be a source of blessing to someone, and give them a chance or a reason to light up in a film of shine.

And I hope that, too, someone be that person to us too.


Have a shine-full day family! ❤ ❤

Photo credit: @korekgraphy


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.


We do not always get things right, or make the right choices, or be with the right people, or say the right things, or do the right things– even when we really, really do try to. We constantly evolve, through perceptions and ideals, adjust to re-align ourselves to a moving world. We do everything to fit in and match up.

Sometimes, it works; and all of this magic rightness and righteousness turn out nicely- nice job, nice house, nice partner, nice kids, nice life. At other times, it doesn’t. We realise, having put so much effort into being right, that it doesn’t always get us “there”. Of course, “rightness” is subjective, as is that place called “there”, but the pain is the same, as is the gaping hole from the disappointment, rejection, loss, or heart-break; and the silent question on the edge of our lips that reads “didn’t we do all the right things that we were asked to”?

People will think things and see things differently; seated outside that glass window that is our life, they will drool over its’ seeming perfection, and even adopt our names as prayer points; unaware of the splinters and cracks in our souls from which tinny drops of life seep in to culminate into a rivulet of ache and pain.

These days almost always come. These feelings, almost all of us are familiar with. And it is okay to ask the questions, and cry the aches out; but we must also make sure to praise ourselves for trying and daring to love; for giving even without getting a dime in return. We must praise ourselves for having the courage to entrust our hearts to be broken; for having been vulnerable enough to be invaded. Most importantly, we must praise ourselves, because deep down in our hearts, we know that once beaten is not always twice shy; and even when our heart’s been beaten to a pulp by life’s wanton surprises, we would never truly give up on trying. We are beautiful because we are strong. We are strong, because we’ve been weak before, and we broke, and we healed. And now, we are standing again, waiting undauntedly to be broken again…


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

Make it count.


Say we started each day on a blank space– no yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, befores or afters, or then or laters… just now. The moment. The blink. The beat. The itch. The jolt. The breath. The feel. Yes, that feeling that perhaps every second exists in itself, and maybe it really does… because the next second is not guaranteed, and the last second is gone as though it never happened. So it’s here and now, and what you do with it. It could end now, and it could continue. But we don’t know how much more feels, or breaths, or heartbeats there’ll be; or how how many more blinks, or moments it’ll take. When’s the last hello or the last goodbye, the next later that may never arrive… I don’t know, maybe you don’t too. But we know of a now. Wouldn’t we rather make it count?


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.

“Guess what, he said he wants a divorce!”


Good morning again Lovelies! I got a Daily Post prompt yesterday, which read “call someone, or ask the person next to you what he/ she is thinking, and write about it!” My first thought was what?! And then, I burst into a feat of giggles as I dared myself to take on the challenge.

So I called! And she said, “Guess what, he wants a divorce!” And I’m like “Halleluyah, but what?!”

While it might have been so much more fun writing about what we discussed, I am a little angry typing this post out. I don’t get it, that some men can be so damn insensitive and too old for reasoning sometimes. Okay, this is a little gist about the issue on ground. It’s a typical rich wife, struggling hubby story, and as you would guess, hubby feels so threatened that his wife is thriving. In fairness to the woman, she tries! She is one very generous and giving woman who hates to see the people around her in need. So she just gives, even without expecting a dime in return. She pays the rent, fuels the car, buys foodstuff for the house once in a while, and just about keeps the house running. Just so he doesn’t feel less than a man, she consults him on things and asks him for money for basic house needs – not because she doesn’t have it, but just so he can feel in charge!. She buys him clothes, and gifts – so he looks good!, she pays his tuition fees – dude is yet to bag a proper degree!; but the silly lot that he is, just writes off all the debt he owes to a never- ending tomorrow. She works 8am – 5pm, and so does he, but he’s too much of a man to help around the house. No, I don’t get it. I just think it is grossly unfair!

This goes on for a while, and a cute baby comes along. There’s even more responsibility! Diapers, school fees, baby upkeep, plus the usual rent, clothing’s, foodstuff and all! But hubby is still blinded by hate to step up his game. Wifey still pays his tuition, takes care of rent, takes care of his parents and hers, provides for the baby’s needs (except baby milk and diaper which she has refused to add to her long list) and makes life a little worth living for all of them. Who better than he thanks God for having such a capable wife, and prays to be able to own up to his responsibilities one day so he can pay her back and feel as he should, a man! Yet, all he would do is go to work, come back late (claiming he is not responsible for the traffic on the road), expect already made dinner when there is the baby to care of after a long day at work and he won’t even offer to take care of the baby while she rustles something for them to eat. Osiginni?! I shudder at the thought, and hurt for she who is on this spot! Why?

After a long time overdue, wifey decides enough is enough! No more loans or bad debts, especially because most advances/loan he takes remain unsettled for a very long period of time, until they’re forgotten! No more paying of his school fees, no more birthday gifts (it’s bad enough that during wifey’s birthday, hubby will always say ‘alert never chow!‘ and for the life of me, I can’t believe he almost rendered the same excuse on his son’s birthday! Bhet why!), no more buying of clothes for him (if he can’t buy for wifey and baby, at least let him buy for himself), infact, the list is so longgggg!!!!!

And while we are still thinking, trying to find a reasonable and tenable explanation to hubby’s inhumanity, he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed one bright day, with a dead soggy brain, and says he wants a divorce, simply because wifey said enough is enough? Oh yes, please bring it on! You won’t be missed!

*sigh! It’s sad, more for the little one, than even the mother involved. But hey, if he files that divorce, i’ll be the first to congratulate her!

And so once again lovelies, she said “guess what, he wants a divorce”, and I said “Halleluyah, but what?!”


To y’all going through this kind of trouble, or something similar oe even worse, I say the Lord is your strength!


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.