I am precisely where I should be; half way round the lake at Chorlton Water Park. It’s what I do on Monday afternoons. I finish work at two-thirty; have a late lunch in my car and then walk. I look at the trees, even when they’re bare like today. I listen to the birds, sit on this bench and watch the ducks. Sometimes there’s a heron. It stands on the left side of the lake. It isn’t here today. I can hear a magpie behind me, but if I don’t turn around I won’t see it and it won’t be bad luck.


jeez me mum never stops moan moan moan she needs to get a grip at least I rang her whats her problem anyways bout hope im gonna get changed whats wrong wiv these jeans an I have to wear me vest top cos ive gotta put me work tshirt on over it an there aint no way that skanky tops touchin me skin its gross


So, my husband has gone. Before I lifted the telephone to my ear and before Funmi greeted me I sensed that something had happened. I do not know how many hours I have been sitting in this chair but my body is stiff. My room looks strange to me as though I have just entered somewhere I do not know. Peter is dead. He is gone. If it had not been for that man, Sha! But what am I saying? Did he force me to come to this place?

Short Story Publication


2015 was quite an exciting year for completing projects and getting them out there. I had a short story published in Closure Anthology  which is the first Contemporary Black British anthology to be published in 15 years. I keep company with some amazing authors on those pages and it’s humbling.

Last year was also the 70th Anniversary of the 5th Pan African Conference that took place in Manchester in October, 1945. My PhD novel covers this conference from a woman’s perspective and I was fortunate enough to be invited to discuss my novel at the conference. I also had an afternoon at Coffee Nubia with Pete Kalu. I read from my novel and discussed the plot and Pete Kalu talked about the Pan Africanism movement in Manchester in the 70s and 80s.

A House With No Angels has had a Manchester airing and has been reviewed by two independent readers with great reception. It will be on the shelves soon!

The Dance


The following is an extract from a short story that was published in Migration Stories (

Issy stood with her head bowed and waited. She could sense the shift in the audience as the tension stretched its way across the seats. There was a rustling at the side of the stage. The last drummer took his place. But she could only think about one thing as she stood in the thick stage air.

The first beat of the drum vibrated through the floor and up her slim legs to fill her chest, she turned her head to the left and the right and saw the pity in the other dancer’s eyes. They were all thinking the same thing. She knew it. She knew that even as they pitied her, they were relieved it wasn’t happening to them. They belonged.

Each time she lifted her head she had to close her eyes as the lights glared deep into them. She wasn’t standing in a good place. She wondered if this is how the sun would be when she got off the plane. Would she stand there blinded before hands pulled her away and maybe even handcuffed her? Thumping the rhythm on the boards, she circled with the others. Today she was free. But tomorrow.

Asylum Accounts__Cover

Short Story Published

I have a short story published in this journal. But don’t just buy it for that! It’s an amazing journal with a mixture of papers and creative output.

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