On the Shelf Where I Keep the Stories I Am Afraid to Finish Writing My phone archived its four hundredth voice note last March. I know because I counted them one insomniac night, scrolling through a catalog that reads like…
Author: Harold Little
Cultural baggage in dating is the invisible suitcase of silences, expectations, and half-remembered stories you drag into every new connection. For those of us navigating love across the Nigerian-British divide, it’s not just about finding someone who shares your taste…
There’s a particular loneliness that creeps in not when you’re alone, but when you’re only half-seen. When you date as someone who carries a diaspora inside you—Nigerian-British, a hyphenated consciousness, a childhood soundtrack of highlife and hymns—you’re not just looking…
There’s a quiet, stubborn story we tell ourselves about success. It goes something like this: to become someone, you must first leave somewhere. The village is too small, the town too stifling, the community too demanding. You pack your bags,…
Living abroad is a slow, strange unstitching. You don’t notice it at first—the way your tongue softens around certain consonants, how you start nodding along to songs you don’t understand, the moment you realize you’ve gone a full week without…
I have a small, unremarkable ritual that no one sees. Every few months, I open the bottom drawer of my dresser and pull out a faded Ankara scarf. It no longer smells of the Lagos market where my mother bought…
It happened in a kitchen in Walthamstow. A Tuesday in February. I was on the phone with my cousin, trying to describe something my grandmother used to do — the way she would wave her hand over a pot of…
I am from a place that no longer exists as I remember it, and I am becoming someone who carries that place like a second skin. This is the quiet, unglamorous work of diaspora: not just leaving, but learning to…
Vulnerability gets talked about like it’s a universal key—show up, be seen, let go of the outcome. It’s the emotional gamble of honesty, the choice to share the messy, hopeful, unfinished parts of yourself. For a lot of people, that’s…
I’ve been sitting with this word—vulnerability—for a while now. Not the polished, Instagram-quote version where someone posts a tear-streaked selfie and calls it “being real.” I mean the kind that lodges in your throat when you’re the only one in…