pigeons on my windowsill
By Cynthia Nnenna Nnadi
1
I lie in bed humming The Twelve Days of Christmas mid-June, folded into myself, arms wrapped around my legs and knees to chin like there’s deadly virus in the air.
Brain is jammed. Can’t remember what the eighth day is. Either the laying geese or the milking maids. Definitely not the swimming swans. Think that’s the sixth, or seventh.
I toss this way and that. Bite my bottom lip till it bleeds.
My phone rings. I ignore it. It rings again but no more after that. Three rapid dings follow. I reluctantly reach for it.
The iMessage notification is from Dr Anita: Did you forget our session today? Are you running late again? Call me once you get my text, okay? I’ll be expecting you.
I let my phone fall face flat on the bed, wondering why I still put up with this. The thought stirs a mature nausea in my belly. I get up from bed for the first time in twenty-something hours. Obvious from the sinkhole I leave behind. The foul odour of dried sweat and stale urine force through my nostrils, smothering. Louvres are shut behind the dusty curtain. Dustbin is overflowing, mostly empty Chicken Republic packs and Sprite cans. A heap of unwashed plates in the sink.
As usual, I ignore everything. I tramp over the chaos or slide it off my path. Brush my teeth shabbily and take a bath not good enough for how long I’ve gone without one.
Today, I wear faded mom jeans, a squash-coloured tee and a striped satin scarf that doesn’t match. It only conceals my overdue cornrows. Looks sunny outside, but I curl a thick woollen sweater around my neck, finishing the sleeves into a fat knot. It’s a bit itchy. I don’t take it off.
My destination is a downstreet hospital a short walk from home. Not long before I’m dehydrated, and it becomes too evident the sweater was a terrible idea. Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done recently. I’ve discontinued my Fluoxetine, deleted all my social media, and flushed my main line down the toilet. I’ve held a pocket knife to my throat and shattered the mirror while cussing at my reflection.
Dr Anita is standing outside scouring the hospital front. I’m close enough to notice the anxious scowl on her baked face. Her ward coat is slung over one arm. The other is akimbo. She checks her wristwatch twice in second intervals. When she sees me, she waves eagerly.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ I ask.
‘Was,’ she says, catching a bead of sweat from my temple. ‘You’re late. You had me worried.’
‘You thought I was dead.’
She doesn’t respond. Only ushers us inside. There aren’t a lot of patients in the waiting area. Actually, just three: a pregnant woman, a teenage girl, and an old man who appears to be making a fuss. He’s hunched over the reception counter. The receptionist, a long-necked woman with high cheekbones and exaggerated pink blush, doesn’t bother to hide her boredom or disinterest. I rub my nose and hold my breath. We make a turn, then another, then we enter a room with Consultation Room 5 labelled on a loosely-fastened metal doorplate. The air is crisp, having an odd mix of lavender, cheap oud, and a hint of caffeine.
‘You may want to put your sweater on,’ Dr Anita says. She’s fishing for something in the drawer. Slams the upper compartment shut and yanks out the one underneath. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to find…’ She’s on the last drawer now. ‘Ah, there it is.’ She lifts a small remote control missing its battery cover. There are no batteries in it. She realises and blurts a disappointed ‘Wow.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Good thing I brought a sweater, right?’
‘Right. Good thing.’ Her lips spread into a smile that forms micro cracks on her matte lipstick. It’s a bright red that complements her fair glass skin. ‘How’s it been? How have you been?’
I want to tell her to lose the creepy smile. To quit coddling me. Instead, I say, ‘Not bad. Been better.’
‘That’s quite vague.’ Soft mouse clicks and intermittent keyboard punches punctuate the air. An elderly nurse enters, drops a file on the table, and exits. ‘How are you finding the new medication?’
I shrug. ‘Not bad too.’ I leave out the little detail of trashing my meds.
‘And the nightmares?’
‘They come, they go. Embracing my demons.’
She’s locked on me now. ‘Any complaints you’d like to share?’
‘Headaches, yes. Been feeling some pain in my stomach.’
‘Have you been eating well? You’ve lost three kg since the last time and you look pale.’
‘Oh, I do?’ I fake surprise. ‘My bad.’
Dr Anita says I remind her of her younger sister studying Applied Arts in Saskatchewan. Apparently, we have the same stubby nose and are agemates. She’ll be twenty-four in October.
‘Ever heard of Margaret Clitherow?’ I ask.
Not looking my way, Dr Anita says, ‘Margaret who? The name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘She was a Catholic-convert wife of a protestant butcher in New York. Was sentenced to death for propagating religion. Laid on a sharp stone with an eight-hundred-pound load placed on top of her.’ I make my palms into a hollow sandwich, peering at Dr Anita through the space. ‘She died in fifteen minutes. Crazy, isn’t it? They were creative with killings back then, almost fascinating.’
Dr Anita is quiet. Only gives a curt remark: That sounds brutally painful.
‘Right? Can’t decide which is worse. That or Saint Lawrence who was executed on a red-hot gridiron. Like a chicken. His last words were turn me over, I’m cooked on that side. You know, such courage fascinates me, and I wonder what I’ll do when death is right in front of me. I hear there’s this rush in the moment. All your life, coming back at you. Memories toppling over one another, competing for your last shreds of attention. Faces, dreams, voices.’ I push to the edge of my seat. ‘Will I regret most of it? Will I be brave? Or will I wish for another chance? What do you think?’
Dr Anita’s composure breaks into visible concern. ‘Neche?’
‘Mm-hm,’ I chime, wide-eyed, with well-scripted oblivion.
‘Have you been thinking of death lately?’
I don’t respond.
2
I get native rice, grilled chicken, and Freshyo from Utuk’s Kitchen on my way home. Dr Anita’s treat. Said I look famished and made sure to escort me to the eatery.
The chicken tastes like old newspaper and the rice is too spicy. Has these pesky chunks of bony fish and undertone of soy sauce. My phone rings. It’s Aunty Nkem. I pick and retreat to my sinkhole, toppling my food in the process, but I pay it no mind. Aunty Nkem wants to know how I’m doing. How my session with Dr Anita went today. I compress the details into indistinct snippets—the truth, regardless. Dr Anita would spill all the tea anyway. They’ve been tight since secondary school. She asks about my meds; I tell her it’s okay.
Aunty Nkem tells me about work. She’s been appointed team lead for a big project in the insurance company she works for. For this, she has to move from Farnham to Scotland for six weeks, where she’ll be housed in a fully-automated, deluxe suite. She has a new boyfriend, Thomas Burton. A wealthy restaurateur and single dad in his mid-forties. Met him at a coffeehouse she frequents on her way to work. It’s her fifth relationship since she relocated two years ago. I tell her to stick to Black men. Specifically, Nigerian men. Maybe they’d have more in common or understand each other better. She says it’s not like that. Not as easy. More complex. And without providing any more context, she goes on to lament about a colleague, Harper, who recently died of kidney cancer. They weren’t too close but she was one of those people everyone loved. Unhateable, she says. The mention of death makes my heart sink. Eventually, we run out of talk and agree to catch up tomorrow. Her parting words: A prayer a day keeps the devil away. Call me if you need anything. Kisses.
No day passes without Aunty Nkem dialing in. She assures me that any day I don’t pick her call, she’s boarding the next flight to Nigeria. The UK is only six hours away, keep that in mind, she’d say. I’ll be there before you finish saying Femi—it’s always Femi—stole my shoes.
I spend the next few hours wasting in bed and listening to Lana Del Rey on repeat.
3
Noisy cooing of pigeons in my roof void disrupts my sleep.
Sunlight pries through my slightly parted eye lids causing me to bury my face in the pillow. I use another pillow to sandwich my head as soundproof. Fucking birds. Have they always been here?
There’s rapid shuffling and a faint rattle against the ceiling. There seems to be more than one creature up there, and whatever conversation they’re engaged in seems quite serious. I grab one of my thick sole Dunlops and fling it at the ceiling. The cooing halts. Continues shortly, and I launch my other slipper. The cooing stops for good. I roll into the supine position and stare at the mark my slipper left on the gypsum ceiling. My heartbeat quickens. I can almost hear it through the dead silence.
I clutch my head between my palms. My thoughts spiral. An overwhelming emptiness tugs at my chest. I find myself wishing I had my meds.
There’s a tapping on my window. I slide the curtain to find a chubby pigeon pecking at the glass, its head cocked. I hit the place where it’s perched, and it scampers into the air. Minutes later, it returns with another pigeon. Unlike the first, grey from scalp to tail, this one has reddish brown neck and wings mottled with white, with an almond-shaped patch of red skin framing both of its eyes. They tap in unison. I push open the window so they can no longer perch on the sill and a wave of fresh air hits me. It’s the first entering the house in a while. It feels good. I dislodge the flap of the twin window. The stench of the living room rushes out as though previously held captive. I search for the strange pigeons in the yard. It’s empty. Good riddance.
My eyes dart from one corner of the room to the other. The dishevelment feels unsettling. I decide to tidy up. Sort my laundry, do the dishes, wash the bathroom, and mop the tiles. I go the extra mile of clearing months-old cobwebs. By the time I’m done, the sun is setting over a crimson sky. Aunty Nkem calls just when I snuggle in bed. I tell her I’m tired from chores, yet she rambles about this and that. Her voice melts into my subconscious like gummy bears in a microwave.
4
Last night, I dreamt of Aunty Nkem.
The details are vague. I only recall she had two kids, and she seemed very happy.
Aunty Nkem adopted me when I was ten. Grew older and hit her with the classic why me. Something about how I sat alone in the back bench of the orphanage common room assembling toy bricks. I’d built a thing with the semblance of a sworded cyborg, and she thought it was brilliant of me to have made something so unusual. Took me home with the thing I’d built as a souvenir from our first encounter, but I also made ordinary things. A lot of the time, too. Towers, trucks, tall stacks of nothing. With the cyborg, I was only attempting to hatch from my perpetual nothingness into something grander. All these years, I’ve lived in fear of Aunty Nkem starting a real family and not needing me anymore. Like a preamble to the main thing. Maybe I’m merely her practice material. My actual parents remain a myth. No one has told me any unfortunate story of how I came to be. Not abandoned in a waste bin, not left at the doors of church, not dumped on the street. Maybe this explains why I am the way I am. Broken and lost at life. Maybe I fell from the sky and hit my head on a rock. Or erupted from a scientific bang, sequel to a failed experiment. Maybe I’m not real. A wild card. I could fizzle into nonexistence any moment.
I’m whisked into an endless train of whys and what ifs that I don’t notice when the pigeons from the other day perch on my windowsill. They stare into my space with small beady eyes. What are they thinking? What do pigeons think about? I watch them. They coo and nibble at the window’s metal frame and occasionally bump beaks. I reckon that’s a pigeon French kiss.
I think to name them. Grey one, Malcolm. Red-eyed one, Martha.
5
I wake to the sound of pigeons in my roof void, but I’m not as disgruntled as the first time. I have fruit bread going stale in the kitchen. I cut two slices into small chunks and throw in the front yard for Malcolm and Martha so they don’t nibble on my window. Later, I browse Martha’s features, as I’d never seen a bird like her. I learn that she’s a Speckled Pigeon. I read through r/PetPigeons and r/Pigeons on Reddit. A wild pigeon got charlotteiscranky_6 through her second miscarriage. There’s a one-year-old rant from RacoonFart titled Stop Posting About Fucking Pigeons!, which continues to attract angry comments. QuantumBanana1022 posted about their Oriental Roller, Bloopie, that swallowed a pearl and had to be rushed to the vet. Wondering whether the bird survived, my phone buzzes with an email from Dr Anita. It contains a ten-step guide for coping with dark thoughts:
Acknowledge the negative thoughts.
Write them down.
Replace them.
Step out for air.
Distract yourself.
Take up a new hobby.
Cut down social media.
Avoid the news.
Listen to uplifting music.
Speak positive things to your reflection.
Number ten reminds me that I no longer have a mirror, so I order a new one from Jumia. By evening, the bread chunks are gone, but Malcolm and Martha are nowhere to be seen.
6
Past few days have been tricky to navigate. Some days felt difficult and endless. Others slipped by in routine. By routine, I mean lying in bed for the better parts of my day. I remember it was easier to breathe on Sunday, then the day after was suffocating and sad. My essence was far from me and everything seemed bleak. I craved the numbness my meds offered. It wasn’t a quick fix—or a fix at all—but at least I wouldn’t have felt like falling off a cliff in the moment.
Malcolm and Martha stopped by sometimes. Once, a third pigeon perched with them. It was Malcolm-grey and comparably slight. Maybe Malcolm’s cousin or nephew. I didn’t like that it perched between Malcolm and Martha. They couldn’t bump beaks. I hope it doesn’t stop by again.
Yesterday, I thought to check the dustbin outside the compound for my meds, but remembered the LASTMA truck stopped by last week. My meds must be long gone. I devise a plan B: Attempting to get a refill from the pharmacy with an old prescription. Swore on my life it was recent. The pharmacist called my bluff and referred me to my physician, which is why I’m constructing an email to Dr Anita.
I read about telehealth and electronic prescriptions before presenting my case, hoping to persuade Dr Anita to scribble me a prescription without a physical session.
Request for e-Prescription.
To: anitaojo@healingcross.com
Dr Anita,
Thank you for the tips you sent earlier. They’ve been super helpful.
There’s a little problem with my meds though. I misplaced it sometime last week and I really, really need it. Life has been unbearable without it. Do you understand? I need to get some tomorrow. Could you sign me an e-prescription? I learnt that’s a thing these days, so you can’t say no. Right?
Thanks for your cooperation. Have a nice day.
Regards,
Chinecherem.
She responds in about an hour.
Re: Request for e-Prescription.
Anita Ojo Ibukunoluwa
To: Chinecherem Nwadike
Neche, I’m sorry to hear about your medication. You should have informed me much earlier. Unfortunately, I can’t write you an e-prescription. Let’s meet tomorrow or on the weekend? Let me know which is convenient for you. I hope you’re eating better now? Take care and remember to breathe.
All best wishes,
Anita.
That didn’t go as planned. Sadly, there’s no plan C.
I scratch my head, contemplating. Nothing comes to me but flakes of dandruff that snow onto the dry skin of my thighs. My fingertips smell of mouldy potatoes at the climax of putrefaction. I should visit the salon, but first, I loosen the cornrows and wash my hair. Saves me the shame of having someone else undo the load of dirt accumulated in my dense thicket of hair, a hassle in itself.
At the salon, I realise that while my life is stagnant, the world around me is changing. The chipped off-white of the salon walls have been repainted to vintage pink and old-style dryers upgraded to sophisticated wares. An American action movie blares from the television that once only displayed local dramas from the early 2000s. Aïssatou, my favourite hairdresser, is gone. I’m told she returned to Dahra in preparation for her wedding to a Turkish business man, after which they’ll settle in Bahrain. They say she is already pregnant. Gracy and Zenab discuss Aïssatou’s man and the type they want for themselves. Gracy is passionate about rich Europeans and curly-haired half-caste kids, but Zenab is less ambitious. Only wants a decent, hardworking man from her hometown because big men are likely to cheat. I want to tell her she’s wrong. All men are likely to cheat. But another customer beats me to it. The woman is making waist-length knotless braids. She talks about cheating spouses, about stinking rich wicked politicians, the Yaba bridge construction which has gone on for too long, her fabric shop at Tejuosho, and the sales girl that stole millions from her, now on the run.
Zenab takes her time with my hair, parting and tugging in rhythm with the gossip. Casual chitchat escalates into a heated argument about splitting bills between the guy and the lady on the first date, ending in a half-hearted truce. I’m relieved when Zenab does the last twist. I gawk at my reflection in the large mirror. Brown, springy twists flow down my shoulders, with colourful beads at their ends. The added length makes me feel better about carrying the old hair long enough for it to grow.
‘Wetin you think?’ Zenab asks. ‘E fine, abi?’
I nod. ‘I like it. The beads are pretty.’
I tip Zenab and Gracy. It was nice hearing voices other than those in my head for a change.
7
Stepping out yesterday makes me wonder what I can do differently to align with an ever-changing world.
Even Malcolm and Martha have caught the drift. Perched on the other sill today. By evening, I meet with Dr Anita. She only needs to verify the story of how I misplaced my meds before she can prescribe another. I confess to discarding it. She’s not happy about that. Says there are many people who need but can’t afford these meds. I’ve added one kg, so she lets it go and writes me a new prescription which I pick up at the pharmacy. On my way home, I decide what I want to do differently:
Start a new series. I pick The Secret Life of My Secretary because
i. It stars Kim Young-Kwang who happens to be a longtime favourite.
ii. I think I’m due for a happy-go-lucky romcom.
Beat Aunty Nkem to it today. She always calls first. I should be more proactive.
Reach out to an old friend. I once bonded with a girl at the hospital reception over k-dramas. I was watching a series while waiting my turn and she had watched it too. She squealed: Is that Chief Kim? I said: Yes, why? We chatted, exchanged contacts, and spoke every now and then. I’d learnt she was seriously struggling. Paranoid schizophrenia and recurrent depression, was it? Life happened. We lost touch. It’s been over a year since we spoke. I have to admit I kept my distance because it was harrowing talking to someone who mirrored me so much.
Aunty Nkem is delighted by my call, though she’s more surprised. It makes my heart flutter, then sink at the realisation of my infrequent communication. I should do better. Aunty Nkem is almost done with her six-week thing. In her words, it’s been hectic, fun, and life-changing. The founder of a viral fintech is into her, and she’s flashing green lights at him.
‘That’s quite frivolous,’ I say. There’s Thomas back in Farnham.
In her defence, a girl is never off the market till the deal is done and the deed is sealed. We talk about life and boys and work. Reality shows and the weather too. It’s the last days of spring in the United Kingdom. She assures me that she’s working on my travel papers, and soon we’ll be together again.
I make fried potatoes and sardine sauce for dinner. While I eat, I type a message to my old friend on WhatsApp: Hey, Tolani. It’s been a while. How are you doing?
I start the k-drama. Barely twenty minutes into the first episode, a reply from Tolani. I grab my phone, fingers itchy to type a response. I want to tell her about this new drama I’m watching. How I think it’s so funny, she should totally watch. We could have a movie night, yes.
The text is not from Tolani, but her older sister, Fareedah. She informs me that Tolani passed away last month, not mentioning the cause of death.
The air in my lungs instantly feels like poison.
My head is light. Too light, I fear it’ll float off my neck any second and get jagged by the ceiling fan. My eyes linger on the last text Tolani had sent. It’s a high-spirited ‘hey’ with too many y’s to count. I never replied. I know this guilt will haunt me forever.
8
Today, I’m taking step five of Dr Anita’s coping-with-dark-thoughts very seriously. Distract yourself, she said. It’s selfish. Trying to drown the thoughts of my late friend, but it’s either this or that.
Malcolm and Martha watch me from their usual spot. Can they tell? That my heart is breaking today. Can they hear the ticking? Not the wall clock. There’s that, but I mean the anxiety and rage ticking in my soul? Animals supposedly have heightened senses. Do pigeons count?
My hands start to tremble. I feel a pulsating headache take form somewhere in my head. My temperature rises, and I start sobbing. Hot, hot tears that refuse to dry up.
My phone rings, yanking me from my thoughts.
‘Dr Anita,’ I cry into the call. ‘Please, make it stop. Make it stop.’
The room transforms into a vast gloomy forest. I hear a voice, soft and ethereal, pulling me to a distant flicker of light. Pulling and pulling. My vision goes blank.
I don’t wake till sunrise.
9
I’m throwing bread in the yard, wearing a knee-length dress, black from collar to hem. No enthusiasm in my hands. Just a mindless gesture.
Malcolm and Martha haven’t stopped by in days.
The day crawls into night in slow, obvious seconds. When it’s dark enough, I light a candle for Tolani. I watch the candle burn into a short stump of wax.
At daybreak, I send my condolences to Tolani’s sister. It’s the least I can do. Something along the lines of how Tolani and I were good friends. How I’ll miss her so much and hope she’s at a much better place. That words can’t contain my grief, and I hope we meet again in another lifetime. I tell her to take care and wish her fortitude to bear this great loss. She doesn’t reply. I don’t expect her to. She must think me a vile, bloody hypocrite for ignoring her sister’s message that long and now saying this. No difference between me and those who only have flowers for the dead. I put a candle and a white heart beside Tolani’s name and archive her chat.
A text from Dr Anita. She’s scheduled a session for tomorrow, but not at the hospital. At a park, which is suspicious. Her last sentences read ‘Put on a pretty dress. See you.’
10
Today, I’m wearing the Stella McCartney sundress Aunty Nkem bought me on her last visit. It’s simple and spiffy. Has a little side slit and what not. Brilliant yellow with crisscross cutout back. I wear an ankle boot and a shiny lip-gloss. Mascara my eyelashes and slick my edges to finish. I haven’t looked this good in a while. Don’t feel so great, but I guess the look compensates.
At Ndubuisi Kanu park, Dr Anita is already waiting. It’s not hard to spot her when I arrive. The park is scanty, and it helps that she’s camped close to the entrance.
She waves me over, stands up from the straw mat, and draws me into an embrace. She smells of bergamot and musk. Sports a loose all-white jumpsuit and a blue-ribboned boater over a waist-length bone straight. I slide a compliment, she does the same, and we settle on either side of the food platter. There’s strawberry Farmfresh, grapes, shortbread, a buttercream mini cake, Four Cousins, ginger beer.
‘Aunty Nkem has a hand in this?’
‘Kind of?’ Dr Anita says, rather amused. ‘How did you figure that out?’
‘These are all my favourite things.’ We both stare at the food. ‘Only she would know.’
‘I may or may not have told her about your breakdown the other day.’
I suppress an eyeroll. ‘Isn’t there like, a confidentiality clause to your practice?’
‘Well.’ She pours white wine in a disposable cup and hands it to me.
I take the wine. ‘Well?’
‘Nkem and I are close. You’re her daughter. Cheers?’
I mutter, ‘Cheers,’ clearly dissatisfied, but I don’t challenge further. I lift my cup and chug the drink. It’s chill and refreshing. Fancy being out here. Weather is nice. Grass is lush. The sky is clear and rich and blue. Like a canvas, with sparse splotches of cloudy white paint. I slurp the last drops of my wine, thinking how delicious it is, reading the bottle’s label like the information in it matters beyond this moment. Like I’d remember it was made in a Spanish vineyard with grapes harvested in 2012.
‘What happened the other day?’ Dr Anita asks, in-between bites of a crusty doughnut.
‘What other day?’
‘On the call. I was worried sick.’
‘Oh. I lost a friend. We met at the hospital last year.’
‘Really?’ A mouthful of doughnut reduces her voice to a muffle. She dabs chocolate smudge off the edge of her lips with a serviette. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Tolani. Sounds familiar?’
Dr Anita’s eyes widen. ‘I know her. I mean, I think I do.’
My heart drops. ‘Did she…’
‘She’s resting now. That’s what matters.’ Dr Anita rubs my arm and offers a forced, empathetic smile. ‘What do you say we play Jenga? I can give you a run for your money.’ She smirks. I scoff.
We play Jenga. She’s terrible at it. Beat her three rounds of five, but she blames the grass for imbalance. We play cards, and she gets her revenge. Watch some Instagram skits and play chess after. I lose twice and on the third play, I topple all the pawns. She says I’m a sore loser. Who cares? I beat her in Ludo for good measure. We take pictures for Aunty Nkem at golden hour. The pictures are okay.
Dr Anita drops me off. Takes my left palm when she’s parked. ‘Listen, I had a lot of fun today and you’re good to be around. Every day may not be like this, but days like this keep our eyes peeled on the horizon hoping for something better. It’s the hope that keeps us going.’ She caresses my freezing knuckles, transferring much needed warmth to them. Asks if I had fun.
‘I had fun,’ I say. A little too much fun. I mumble a thank you.
‘Nkem will be happy to hear. You have that madam wrapped around your finger. I should use you to get favours, no? Why in the world haven’t I thought of that?’
‘If we’d be splitting sixty-forty, maybe.’ This elicits a hearty laugh from Dr Anita.
‘Sounds fair.’ She starts the engine and moves the gear to drive. ‘Stay alive, okay?’
‘I try.’ Sincerely, I do.
I alight and watch Dr Anita’s posh Nissan purr out the gate and vanish into a bend. Its sheeny burgundy skin leaves me craving ice-cold, pineapple-sweetened zobo.
When inside, I stare at the living room window from a distance, then draw closer and search the yard. No Malcolm, no Martha. It’s been five days now, but who’s counting?
I turn to leave but stop when I notice objects on the windowsill. A dirty bronze coin and a crooked skinny twig. I chuckle and shake my head. Malcolm and Martha, those two. This odd gesture makes my heart warm. I push open the window and a wave of fresh air hits me.
It’s a good day today. It’s a good day to be alive.
Cynthia Nnenna Nnadi is a writer, editor, and pharmacist from Enugu, Nigeria. Her work explores feminism, class disparity, illness, and the impact of technology on relationships, while experimenting with language and form. Her fiction has appeared in AFREADA, The Journal of African Youth Literature, and elsewhere. She is online @inkpharm.
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