This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

Nobody has the time to sit down and explain the first world from first principles.

I think that there's something extremely beautiful about the Olympic ideal and its motto - 'Swifter, higher, stronger' - it's such a beautiful motto, and it celebrates everything which is the antithesis of death and dissolution and entropy.

Sometimes we don't notice that someone is being brave, because they are only doing something that seems quite easy for us.

Is it my fault if I do not look like an English girl and I do not talk like a Nigerian? Well, who says an English girl must have skin as pale as the clouds that float across her summers? Who says a Nigerian girl must speak in fallen English...?

This thing with being lovers, it isn't like being married.

So when I say that I am a refugee, you must understand that there is no refuge.