01
Scarcity Is a Plot Engine, Not a Setting
A queue painted as background wastes the only thing scarcity offers for free: a fixed supply, a rule for sharing it, and a population that never agreed to the rule.
The Reading Room
What the room is reading this week. Long-form work by people who write for a living and people who write to stay sane - a free alternative to Medium, with no paywall and no algorithm deciding who sees you.
02
What the Ghazal Knows About Repetition
A ghazal I memorised at eleven ends every second line with the same three words. By the final couplet they mean nearly the opposite of what they meant first.
03
The Notebook You Keep Outdoors
The notebook I trust has been rained on, dropped in a rock pool, and left in a coat through a wash cycle, and still has something legible in it.
04
Writing Down a Voice Without Flattening It
A river became a flood, a house became a residence, pots became possessions. Nothing was factually wrong, and the person who said it had vanished from her own sentence.
05
Three Languages, Three Different Novels
The same father appears in three drafts of one family novel, French, English, and a Darija-thick French, and he has never said the same thing twice across any of them.
06
What Lagos Traffic Taught Me About Pacing
A four hour trip that should take forty minutes is not one long delay. It is eleven delays of different shapes, and that difference is the whole lesson about pacing a scene.
07
Every Poem Is a Negotiation With Silence
A student wanted her poem to say everything about her grandmother. I asked her to choose, in advance, which forty percent she was willing to give up.
08
What Fieldwork Does to Sentences
There is a measurable gap between the moment a bird crosses a transect and the moment you can name what you saw, and it is sitting inside every sentence.
09
The Interview Is Not the Story
I built a clean chronological account from a testimony, every fact checked against the tape, and the woman who gave it told me it was not what happened. She was right.
10
Register Is Harder Than Vocabulary
A reader stopped believing my police officer at a line with no wrong words in it, only the wrong address form for a boy he had no reason to respect.
11
Your Invented World Needs a Maintenance Schedule
Every drainage culvert I ever stamped came with a second document nobody read: who clears it, how often, and the fine if the contract lapses. Invented worlds need the same page.
12
The Difference Between Subtlety and Cowardice
A colleague once complimented my most cowardly poem for being lovely. I did not correct him, because the poem's ambiguity was built to protect me, not to accuse anyone.
13
Against the Daily Word Count
A count of eggs laid tells you almost nothing about a colony's future. Fledging rate tells you nearly everything. Writers have been tracking eggs.
14
Oral Structure Does Not Translate to Chapters
A man told me about his father's arrest four times in one sitting, circling back and adding a layer each pass. An editor asked me to put it in order. There was no order to put it in.
15
The Sentence That Only Works in One Language
Seven words, one French verb meaning both to fly and to steal, and no English word that does both. The sentence had to be rebuilt whole, not carried across.
16
The Difference Between Exotic and Specific
One workshop sentence about a suya vendor, rewritten once, shows that exotic and specific are not about the noun at all. They are about whether a later scene depends on it.
17
Write the Poem That Survives Being Quoted Wrong
A stranger tweeted four words of mine out of order, missing the negation that reversed their meaning. The poem survived the misquote because I had built it to.
18
Weather Is Not Description, It Is Pressure
Most weather in most nature writing is not doing anything, and cutting it would improve the book. Weather earns its place by what it forces to happen.
19
Repetition Means Something Different When Spoken
A woman said the word for alone three times in one paragraph. An editor circled all three as redundant. The three repetitions were not doing the same job.
20
Idiom Is a Trap for the Careless Writer
A liver gone black with worry read as the sharpest line in the chapter in Darija and a dead cliche the moment I moved it into French, where the same image wore out generations ago.