“When I was young, I had a big problem with warts. It started with one on the side of my little finger.”

I regret starting drinking alcohol, smoking cigarettes and joining Facebook.

There is always the fear of unknown – racism comes from people when they don’t know something, they are strangers to the other side.

The episode of The Fresh Prince in Bel-Air when Will Smith’s father disses him. That’s sadder than when Mufasa died.

A year later, I had it on all my fingers. My hands looked like the hands of an alligator. So I fist bumped people instead of shaking hands for a few years.

What is the problem with the advertising industry is they’re still, for me, what I call in Africa is the colonial mind of white men, because the black person or the other colour is out of the line. They’re not good for this sort of purpose.

You [Chopin] have in your fingers an orchestra of butterflies.

I place my fingers upon these keys typing 2,000 dreams per minute and naked of spirit dance forth my cosmic vortex upon this crucifix called language.

Stars ink your fingers with a lexicon of flame blazing rare knowledge.

Today I am in control because I want to be. I have my fingers on the switch, but have lived a lifetime ignoring the control I have over my own world. Today is different.

Fools always blame the fire when they burn their fingers.

You’re a work of art only just framed by my eager fingertips.

Your love tickles down my thighs. Let me take it with my fingers and put it on my mouth. Let me see how you taste.

I know how our fingers would interlace. Like this and that. Delicate yet determined. As porcelain scales in serene movements. Iridescent in ways our thoughts could not convey. How beautifully we are made in the ways we trace out along soft skins the words that linger within us.