There are many different ways to be poor in the world but increasingly there seems to be one single way to be rich.

How easy it was to lie to strangers, to create with strangers the versions of our lives we imagined.

Show a people as one thing, only one thing, over and over again, and that is what they become.

There are many different ways to be poor in the world but increasingly there seems to be one single way to be rich.

I’m very feminist in the way I look at the world, and that worldview must somehow be part of my work.

Red was the blood of the siblings massacred in the North, black was for mourning them, green was for the prosperity Biafra would have, and, finally, the half of a yellow sun stood for the glorious future.

Is love this misguided need to have you beside me most of the time? Is love this safety I feel in our silences? Is it this belonging, this completeness?