poet, wanderer, photographer and human.
I was a mother before she was born. The very few memories of my childhood I maintained are those of me looking at my sister, coated in sweet-smelling shea butter oil and baby powder, being cradled in my mother’s arms as she sang beautifully in her alto voice.
I have never really had passion for anything. I have never had hopes, aspirations or plans for the future. As much as there’s a thick air of lost ambitions surrounding me, lost dreams and a strong desire to fulfil plans, if I had turned 30 in what the world was 7 years ago, I would be the perfect description of a lost soul, drifting through the winds with no direction.
My motivation This is going to be a very touchy and personal subject for me. One which has lived in my imagination for many years up till now. As a kid I’ve always been interested in telling stories, and became easily fascinated with fantasy and daydreaming. That world was a big escape for me and somewhat of a survival place to visit whenever I felt I wasn’t in control.
Ibadan to London
I moved to the U.K. when I was about 14 years old. Before then I was in a girls-only Christian boarding school in a city called Ibadan in Nigeria. Because of how incredibly strict the system of my old school was, even during holidays at home, mixing with boys was already a culture shock. 14 year old me in a social setting with boys was very embarrassed and shy. I don’t have any brothers and my father lived in the U.K., so I was a bit clueless and the male gender in general, was completely new territory to me.
Body jewellery for the mind
I have been making pieces of jewellery since I was about 10. I would say it was my first ever creative venture and I absolutely loved running off to the shops and getting supplies after school.
When I first moved into my apartment, it was completely empty. I was attracted to its very cheap monthly rent as it was in the outskirts of Sheffield. I also loved the slanted architecture and the fact that it was tiny. Just enough for me to sleep, cook, dance around, and spend some quality time by myself.
Summer is a whore.
Can I compare summer to a filthy whore? Swaying her inviting hips to tempt her victims Off to the beach they go in large numbers to explore
Summer died and began to rot with some maggots on its prey I was home and locked in, with a fabric on my face I could see the glistening sky with red berries on hot days