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.

I have my father's lopsided mouth. When I smile, my lips slope to one side. My doctor sister calls it my cerebral palsy mouth. I am very much a daddy's girl, and even though I would rather my smile wasn't crooked, there is something moving for me about having a mouth exactly like my father's.

You deserve to take up space.

Americans think African writers will write about the exotic, about wildlife, poverty, maybe AIDS. They come to Africa and African books with certain expectations.

We teach girls shame; close your legs, cover yourself, we make them feel as though by being born female they're already guilty of something.

People have crushes on priests all the time, you know. It’s exciting to have to deal with God as a rival.

This was love: a string of coincidences that gathered significance and became miracles.