Writing, for me, means humility. It’s a process that involves fear and doubt, especially if you’re writing honestly.

Diaspora starts about a thousand years from now. Most of human civilisation has moved inside computers; essentially, a major branch of our descendants consists of conscious software.

“If I were poor, I’d have more use in this world.”

“Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers.

“What were you thinking when you looked at me, scanning my face like the cover of a book? What was I thinking every time I looked away, as if those eyes would devour me, betray my secrets, steal my soul, reveal the pages of my life like an open book?”

“Our exile organizations have been our way of replacing the cities and villages we have lost.”

“The world died in a fit of coughing, in a series of painful, breathless gasps, in a tragic symphony of wheezing and whooping.”

“I wanted to ask why you were lonely, but what would I say if you asked me the same question?”

“Sometimes we feel we straddle two cultures; at other times, that we fall between two stools.”

“The formation of a diaspora could be articulated as the quintessential journey into becoming; a process marked by incessant regoupings, recreations, and reiteration. Together these stressed actions strive to open up new spaces of discursive and performative postcolonial consciousness.”

“I am forced to admit that I am, to them, nothing but a series of destinations with no meaningful expanses in between. ”