Letters from the In-Between
This is where the quieter stories live. The essays that arrive in the middle of the night. The words that don’t always belong in books, but still demand to be written. Here, you’ll find personal letters, published essays, pieces of memoir, and reflections that stretch across love, faith, queerness, grief, identity, and longing.
Some are messy. Some are sharp. Some just are.
Fifteen Things I Learned in 2025
To know someone deeply is to encounter their unhealed places.
You cannot stand near someone for long without your shadow falling on them, and theirs on you.
The Architecture of Softness
Softness is not weakness—it is what strength feels like when it finally breathes.
The Other Side of The Aisle (a witness, By John)
Not every moment is planned.
Not every revolution looks like a riot.
Sometimes, it looks like a grieving daughter who refuses to dim her light.
The Architecture of Softness
Softness is not weakness; it is what strength feels like when it finally breathes.
The Price of Leaving
Black people are strong. Black women? Stronger. Black immigrants? Indestructible. Always functioning, always coping, never breaking. Until they do, and there is no soft place for the break to land.
The Doorway I Hover Before
But even in my absence, you remain.
Like breath. Like ache.
Like a sentence I haven’t finished writing.
I Think I’m Finally Ready Not to Lose Someone
Maybe the point was never to protect myself from losing someone.
Maybe the point is to finally choose someone without rehearsing their departure.
The Timeline Is Burning, and Somehow We Are Still Missing the Point
I logged onto Twitter for the first time in a long while; and within minutes, I remembered exactly why I left.
And so the only honest conclusion — the only one that isn’t drenched in performance or venom — is this:
We should all be in therapy.
On Lagos, Love, and Learning to Be Seen
There’s a particular boldness to Lagos women: not just in how they walk or dress, but in how they exist. They move through this city as if it owes them softness, and somehow, even in a city as chaotic as this, they still manage to create it.
But I’m the Last Born
But I’m the last born.
And the last born does not get to collapse.
Does not get to be the fragile one.
Does not get to be carried.
So, I stand.
I carry.
I hold.
Even when I am the one who needs to be held.
Not Every Death Is Mourned The Same
For those of us who lived under the shadow of Charlie Kirk’s rhetoric—queer people, immigrants, anyone he made it his mission to belittle or erase—grief is not straightforward. His death doesn’t feel like an equaliser. It feels like a reminder: that death is political because life is political, and some lives are contested until their very last breath.
