Tatchero

Help, I’m in a Toxic Relationship with Lagos.

She does this thing where she’s terrible to you all week and then right before you’re ready to leave, she turns golden.
The traffic, the noise, the heat sitting on your chest like debt and you spend days building a case against her. Solid arguments. Reasonable conclusions. And then evening comes and the light shifts and suddenly you’re standing somewhere with a camera you almost left at home, watching the city become something you don’t have words for.

You don’t plan these moments. You can’t. Lagos doesn’t give you a schedule. She just ambushes you with golden hour and ordinary people doing ordinary things in front of skies that look borrowed from films nobody could afford to make. Power lines cutting through clouds. Orange walls catching the last of the sun. Dust turning into light.

That’s the manipulation. She waits until you’re almost done and then she shows you something that breaks your whole argument apart.
I keep making plans to leave. I keep finding myself outside at sunset instead, pointing a camera at a city that gives me just enough beauty to cancel out everything else. That’s the deal she offers and it shouldn’t work. It keeps working.
I think I’m stuck here, am I?
Honestly, I think I’m fine with it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ or maybe not.
̇phone

I wish Lagos didn’t hate cameras.

Orimalade looked at his brother with sad eyes. Adejiyan stared back with fiery respect. Then, the music of their clashing swords began.
Adejiyan took the lead. He spun and struck, fast and strong, moving to a wild, pounding beat. Orimalade simply followed his steps. He stayed perfectly calm, gliding out of the way and matching his brother’s fierce rhythm with quiet grace.
Then, Adejiyan went for the grand finale. He leaped high into the air, launching a massive, flying kick. It was a bold, risky move meant to end the show.
But Orimalade was a shepherd. He understood the natural rhythm of the earth and the flow of movement. Instead of trying to stop the heavy hit, he just tilted his shield and took a smooth step to the side. He didn’t break the dance; he just changed the beat.
Adejiyan’s own speed carried him into empty air. He stumbled, completely losing his balance. In one fluid spin, Orimalade stepped in and rested his blade softly against his brother’s throat.
The music stopped. The dance was over.

Happy to announce that our very first international magazine publication is live. Huge thanks to for this wonderful opportunity.
Their efforts in creating a beautiful showcase for artists like us are invaluable, and we are honored to be part of this issue.

The print edition is up for sale through links on the “Issues” page and at the end of the Interview section at magcloud.com

Dek Unu Magazine is live online at https://www.dekunumag.com