I read small white-biege pages on yellow danfos amidst the sunny Lagos bustle. Not even the jolts of an okada can tear my eyes away from devouring ebooks on my @okadabooks app. My fingers hold down a novel’s open spine hoping salt or palm oil won’t scar the characters while red stew boils behind me in the kitchen. When standing on a lengthy atm queue of stout, lean, brown, black bodies–I pull out and continue the day’s poetry collection from my handbag. The @rovingheights book mark protects my spoon before I launch it into the depths of a glass jar of hazelnut chocolate spread, when reading African literature. Heck, my bookstagram is filled with quirky book photos. The imaginary lives, world and adventures of unforgettable characters enclosed in a book can always be seen next to me.
Even in the shower. I can’t just leave the exposed world crafted by the tiny black words of another creative. So don’t judge. Am I the only one who carries my new books everywhere?