tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46510510630336122662024-02-06T19:06:27.082-08:00AFRICAN STORY TELLERSfictional stories from Afrocentric perpectivesVictor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-63235523202217734342015-08-02T16:06:00.001-07:002015-08-02T16:06:14.417-07:00RESPONSIBILITY-By...Chioma...Ejide...(c)...2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
RESPONSIBILITY-By...Chioma...Ejide...(c)...2015</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Adaeze looked at Timilehin as he knelt before her, beside the dinner table, a small red box which held the most beautiful ring she had ever seen, his hands shaking, and with an uncertain smile as he said the words ‘Marry me’.She felt her world crashing in on her. She wished she could pull him to his feet, fall into his arms and say yes. But life had mapped out another route for her.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmfpEEEcEbzJmW-QyIt1gBvJqlgJPBuHifiwyMiLwsw6VRuPGQV_CrogeVyIBZt5oyqR1sUlRK8v43VpEczj2Rls6enNLc6TCfX4pFN4A3LKB8OD7zmBuQ0DmbJNnmtVt-Pvihgk5gsM/s1600/responsibility1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmfpEEEcEbzJmW-QyIt1gBvJqlgJPBuHifiwyMiLwsw6VRuPGQV_CrogeVyIBZt5oyqR1sUlRK8v43VpEczj2Rls6enNLc6TCfX4pFN4A3LKB8OD7zmBuQ0DmbJNnmtVt-Pvihgk5gsM/s320/responsibility1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Adaeze came from a strong bloodline. The Agu’s were known f<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">or their beauty, intelligence and excessive wealth. Outsiders rumoured that they were involved in human rituals. Some said they had sold their souls to the devil. How can everything be perfect? Money, beauty, brains?</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
The beauty came from marrying well. The brains, well, nobody ever understood that. The wealth however came with a price. </div>
<a name='more'></a>Generations ago when they had been a wretchedly poor and obscure clan one of their ancestors had entered into an arrangement with the village medicine man. The gods will give them tremendous wealth on one condition: every fourth generation, the god will choose any girl-child born in that generation for himself. She will never marry as she will be spiritually married to him. He had agreed and wealth had been made theirs. The first girl-child the god had chosen had defied the agreement. She would marry who she chooses she had said. She had run off with her lover and one by one the men in the clan started going blind. Emissaries were sent to find her and plead with her to come back. She refused. Weeks later the children started dying. The Agu clan consulted the medicine man and he told them there was nothing they could do. The girl had to come back. The emissaries went back. They carried the corpse of the last child that died and dropped it in her arms and left. She came back the next day. The blind men regained their sight but the dead remained dead.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Every generation was told the story. At the age of twelve Adaeze was told of her fate. She was a fourth-generation girl-child. She would go to the best schools. She would have the best things of life but SHE WILL NEVER MARRY. She understood. It was her responsibility. She shunned every form of romantic entanglement until Timilehin. Timilehin of the soft voice and gentle touch. He had melted away her resolve and swept her off her feet. She had been unable to resist. And now he was here, on his knees, asking her to marry him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I am a lion at heart. I may hurt but I will not break. I have a responsibility to my family. That is the most important thing right now. Not me. Not how I feel.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
With steely resolve in her heart she looked at Timi and said, “I’m sorry Timi. I cannot marry you” and she picked up her purse from the dinner table and walked away.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLvIaYP6iJrukH1PlRiGFbgcHbtneQo8ajxphSdTLiBJSPPZZTooUELHsfI1pytCooNTL8i0H7viLI7itxMTGQgUcURhAKcFEf0OVi9iTK6790kHC1EBf6me4Oj2_8hsoOZQLOtFJGOI/s1600/responsibility4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLvIaYP6iJrukH1PlRiGFbgcHbtneQo8ajxphSdTLiBJSPPZZTooUELHsfI1pytCooNTL8i0H7viLI7itxMTGQgUcURhAKcFEf0OVi9iTK6790kHC1EBf6me4Oj2_8hsoOZQLOtFJGOI/s320/responsibility4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-68067258823985127342015-08-02T16:02:00.001-07:002015-08-02T16:02:37.404-07:00ACROSS THE ATLANTIC-By...Nduka...Ekeh..(c)..2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC-By...Nduka...Ekeh..(c)..2015</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
It was a full moon in a clear sky at Nri, Nwafo’s village. All the boys of Nwafo’s age grade, between twelve to fourteen, congregated at the village square for the initiation ceremony into the masquerade cult, ima mmuo, as part of their passage rites into adulthood. While the egwu muo, was performing highlife music resonated in the background. All the boys to be initiated danced around the mmuo to the cheers and applause of onlookers. Nwafo’s uncle, Mazi U<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">denna, the renowned palm-wine tapper made sure his nephew’s okuku didn’t get empty of wine. Given to youthful exuberance, Nwafo got drunk and began to retch. It was then his uncle came to take him home. When he regained consciousness he wasn’t home, instead he was in chains.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
Everything was stark darkness.</div>
<a name='more'></a> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgyhzO2Sbu8H7eBGUbLcKX0imXdN_WEPdT9Qtae083xe26RVcK8x9BiGbFhNZLFkP9f9P1fJbxh73rRY6NbO0ViopnyNWyzkCBAV2Dj7Xk1yjzdcAyBQewty6Q7e6xn12yroHOxmrYfQ/s1600/acosstheatlantic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgyhzO2Sbu8H7eBGUbLcKX0imXdN_WEPdT9Qtae083xe26RVcK8x9BiGbFhNZLFkP9f9P1fJbxh73rRY6NbO0ViopnyNWyzkCBAV2Dj7Xk1yjzdcAyBQewty6Q7e6xn12yroHOxmrYfQ/s320/acosstheatlantic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The blindfold on his eyes was so taut that it gave him headache. His hands were tied behind him while his ankles were clamped in metallic fetters. “Where am I?” he yelled in Igbo. The answer he got were series of scourging whips descending on his bare back, the impact sent spasm of pain down his adolescent spine. He yelped in agony. “You will learn not to be rebellious,” a deep voice replied in Igbo. After the flogging, Nwafo was strong armed into a tiny cage used for keeping captives hostage awaiting the white slave buyers to cart them overseas.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
When it was dawn, he was ushered out along with other prisoners from the bamboo shack where they spent the night in silence. He could hear voices bargaining in the corner. Among the voices there was a strange one. It was none like he had ever heard. The words of the speakers were indiscernible, their words whooshed out speedily like they were speaking through their nose. It was the white men negotiating with the leader of the captors. When the bargaining was over, the blindfolds were removed from the eyes of the captives for the white buyers to make their pick. Nwafo squinted, his vision was blurred. It took him sometime for his sight to adjust to the rising light of dawn. Before him stood one of the strangers who spoke the strange language. The stranger’s skin was a sharp contrast to his charcoal-like skin, it was pale like the inside of an unripe pawpaw. The stranger also had a strange smell. It was sharp, Nwafo was nauseated by it. After observing Nwafo for a while, he spoke in English to the leader of the captors, “this one is fit, he’ll grow into a strong nigger.” The leader shook his head in acquiescence.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Days later after being forced to walk miles without food and water, they would be stuffed into a cargo at Bonny and sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to the West Indies. In a foreign land, seven seas away from Nri, Nwafo would work tooth and nail in a cotton plantation and in later years would wonder if his uncle had anything to do with his fate.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDk6KYy6Z-fbQ0MaTkdfWuP7ch4ERCfFmC8GQSQ_C1W-HEunQ_kpGFNTy2pwmr-GysEqUj1HHhuEghh_RQ4joLRl5DUT3wd5TEZ1QNDsmXJbTaZq87H6OzxBYlzgpKQ8iOi4Egcg5Wow/s1600/slaves_in_chains2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDk6KYy6Z-fbQ0MaTkdfWuP7ch4ERCfFmC8GQSQ_C1W-HEunQ_kpGFNTy2pwmr-GysEqUj1HHhuEghh_RQ4joLRl5DUT3wd5TEZ1QNDsmXJbTaZq87H6OzxBYlzgpKQ8iOi4Egcg5Wow/s1600/slaves_in_chains2.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-56039447722117991612015-08-02T15:57:00.003-07:002015-08-02T15:57:49.032-07:00TWISTED FATE . By...Michael...Chimaobi...(c)..2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
TWISTED FATE . By...Michael...Chimaobi...(c)2015</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
John couldn't hide the disappointment that bulged from his eyes. He struggled with an urge to yell, scream, or cry. His mother sat behind him, his wife lay on the bed; both staring at him as he worked hard to digest the doctor's news. It was good news -or was supposed to be good news; news of his wife's successful labour and arrival of their baby. . Funke's mood darkened with guilt as she observed the wrinkles of frustration on her husba<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">nd's face. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>She'd failed her husband; for the third time. And that time, she couldn't cover the shame that fleshed her face. When the doctor had left the room, John began after some minutes silence: "Why did you lie? You told me it was a boy." . "Yes, I saw it in the scan, I saw a boy. But -but I'm confused." . "Enough." John said calmly. "This is the third time, the third girl... I need a boy! And must you lie to me that it was a boy? Must you?!!" His calm voice rose like billowing tides. .<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"> His mother sat nonchalantly behind him; not saying a word. She never liked Funke. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">What did her son -an igbo man find in that yoruba girl that the girls in their village didn't have? She'd tried openly to dissuade her son from marrying the young lady but her desperate efforts seemed like scooping water with a sieve! "Stop it mama," John would say; "I'm marrying her, period." Funke was pretty. Yes she was, but not as pretty and plump as Oluchi. And not as strong too, the fifty-year old would always mutter under her disgusted breath. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">Life had always been a continuous battle, and Funke had found herself in the middle of it. Her husband needed a male child and she hadn't birthed any. Three times she'd felt cheated and misfortuned. During her pregnancy, the scan would show her a boy. But after birth, the news would be "a girl!" Something seemed to be wrong with either herself or the hospital... . Two years passed. Their baby grew. But their marriage was never the same. John no longer touched her, afraid that she would fill their home with girls! John's mother kept lurking, she'd spotted a crack in the wall; a crack she had made with the sledge of her maleficent tricks. With a smug smile, she recalled how she did it; how she'd always made the nurse swap those babies. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">And the look in their faces when they were told "it's a girl!" . "As long as I'm still me, I never loose a battle," she smirked. Soon John would have no choice but to marry another wife, Oluchi. After Funke had been sent home... she was going to make sure of that. . Mean while, in the same city; three boys wretched and starving in their respective families struggled to survive... under the care of poor parents whose blood were different from theirs. </span><span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">They were Funke's boys. But their fate was a twisted one.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlpQNtC6Cpc-DBT2JghPAaTdjgxiYRt-thhucPVrVfCSV6Dtk42gwxIy36-McUDHe74kjE8k0QDZVdjuUO0OTK8r0O6v-M7tsCZ5QKV0kdhssxCMr20g334EEL1QjmOKXBmoAqGO8wlI/s1600/3boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlpQNtC6Cpc-DBT2JghPAaTdjgxiYRt-thhucPVrVfCSV6Dtk42gwxIy36-McUDHe74kjE8k0QDZVdjuUO0OTK8r0O6v-M7tsCZ5QKV0kdhssxCMr20g334EEL1QjmOKXBmoAqGO8wlI/s1600/3boys.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-51099840223560613382015-06-18T22:29:00.001-07:002015-06-18T22:29:57.969-07:00A WIFE TO BE- By Chioma Ejide (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 26.6666660308838px; line-height: 30.6666641235352px;"><b>A WIFE TO BE- By Chioma Ejide (c) 2015</b></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtWJsAR1d3VdL5S153D9dgZjW9RRyAJuK4Pmb9o8pXAjaLyS22UeiJHjKJ8jOXLWk9rz_NkKgQAaoizlSToIcp4AylJlczkHUn3jf_Ooekr3gDeKmRndXQ9COlJ5q67MGEk5kCgjMNVg/s1600/igbo+bride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtWJsAR1d3VdL5S153D9dgZjW9RRyAJuK4Pmb9o8pXAjaLyS22UeiJHjKJ8jOXLWk9rz_NkKgQAaoizlSToIcp4AylJlczkHUn3jf_Ooekr3gDeKmRndXQ9COlJ5q67MGEk5kCgjMNVg/s1600/igbo+bride.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 26.6666660308838px; line-height: 30.6666641235352px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 26.6666660308838px; line-height: 30.6666641235352px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Deji looked over at Oluchi and
sighed. They had been having an animated conversation all through the journey
but now that they were getting close to their destination everywhere was quiet.
They both knew why. Oluchi was Deji’s fiancée. He met her during a bachelor’s
party of one of his friends. The drinking and noise had been too much for Deji
and he had gone out of the venue for a breath of fresh air. He met Oluchi
outside. She was also bored with the party. They hit it off immediately. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">They discovered they had a lot in
common. Deji loved to read, Oluchi did too. She played games like a pro and
discussed politics with so much fervour. Football was her passion too. They
supported different clubs and would argue after a football match. Deji fell in love. Oluchi was everything he
wanted and more. He asked her out. She accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>Slowly the weeks turned into months
and they fell deeper in love with each other. After months of dating Deji had
finally asked Oluchi to marry him... <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Oluchi looked over at Deji on the driver’s
seat gripping the steering like he was hanging on to life and hissed in her
mind. Her mind flashed back to the day he asked her to marry him. She had told
him they had a lot of differences. Tribe was the main issue. Oluchi couldn’t
stand most of the Yoruba traditions. Curtsy here, greet there. She wasn’t cut
out for that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Why should I kneel down for a
fellow human being? Is the person God? I don’t understand your people.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘It’s just respect. There is no big
deal in kneeling. It’s not like you will die after. It’s just respect’, Deji
would say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Respect <i>gbakwa oku</i>. I respect my parents but I have never knelt down even
once for them.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">They would go back and forth with
this till the conversation was changed by Deji. He had assured her on the day
he proposed that tribe wouldn’t be an issue. Two weeks earlier Oluchi had taken
Deji home to her parents. Her father had thrown a barrage of questions at him
and was satisfied with the responses he got. Oluchi’s mother had reservations.
She had wanted her first daughter to marry an Igbo man. She gave her blessings
grudgingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">When he went to see my parents no
one asked him to kneel down, Oluchi thought as she looked at Deji who was
focused on the road, ignoring her. Two days ago Deji had brought up a sensitive
issue. They were going to see his mum. He was sure his mum would invite his
uncles and aunts to welcome them. She was already very sceptical about his
choice of an Igbo girl and worried that she would lack manners. He had assured
her that Oluchi was a well brought up girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Sweetheart there is this one thing
I want you to do for me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘I knew it! Oluchi exclaimed. When
you went all the way to GRA to buy me my favourite sharwama I knew something
fishy was up.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘So I cannot buy something again for
you with good mind abi? Anyway, you know we are going to see my parent...’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Oluchi stiffened. ‘And?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Please dear, just this once. My mum
will be surrounded by their relatives and friends. Just do this for me. So she
won’t feel slighted.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘What exactly are you asking?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Just curtsy a little when you greet
each of her relatives. You don’t need to kneel. Just a little...’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘I won’t Deji. We have had this
conversation a thousand times. I won’t. Please don’t ruin my evening.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">The conversation had ended. Deji
didn’t speak of it and they both pretended it never happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘This is my street’, Deji said as he
took a turn on the road jarring Oluchi out of her thoughts. ‘I’ve missed this
place.’ Oluchi ignored him. He drove straight ahead and stopped in front of a
two storey building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘We are here,’ he announced. Oluchi
studiously ignored him. Deji got out of the car and went round to the passenger
seat to open the car for her. She stepped out and made a show of straightening
the crease out of her Ankara pleated skirt. Deji led the way into the compound
and she followed. A little child of
about seven poked her head out of the door and on seeing Deji gave a childish
scream of delight and raced into his arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Deji picked her up and twirled her
around. ‘You are becoming big o. Very soon I won’t be able to carry you. How
old are you now?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘I’m six’, she chimed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Deji carried her and headed inside,
oblivious to the fact that Oluchi was standing at a spot, watching him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">He will make a wonderful father, she
thought with a sigh as she imagined him playing with their kids. I love him...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Deji welcome. How was your trip’
his mum asked as he greeted her. ‘It was fine mum. Ah, Uncle Bayo, good evening
sir’ Deji said as he prostrated before him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Welcome. You are getting fat o. Is
it our wife that is already making you fat? I thought you were bringing her,
where is she?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Deji froze for a bit. She has
probably gone, he thought as he looked towards the door. At that same moment
the door opened and Oluchi walked in. Their eyes met. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">‘Is this our wife? Deji’s mum asked
as she looked at Oluchi who was walking towards her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Oluchi smiled and went down on her
knees. ‘Good evening ma’, she said as the woman bent down and enveloped her in
a motherly hug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";">Oluchi looked up from the hug to
stare at Deji. His eyes were moist as he mouthed the words thank you to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjCE72O1itDhm6IP0JJ6A74nInb2crqc5yfliWBslZ6rmCm_w2kd_USFzsKpvIvIPDcZUMX3tps2znigDgbzg77kSDvHx-hAqgLBG2PwCrhnKRm6_1tc2Gui-tBv01ayevnzX5pStKEw/s1600/igbo+bride2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjCE72O1itDhm6IP0JJ6A74nInb2crqc5yfliWBslZ6rmCm_w2kd_USFzsKpvIvIPDcZUMX3tps2znigDgbzg77kSDvHx-hAqgLBG2PwCrhnKRm6_1tc2Gui-tBv01ayevnzX5pStKEw/s1600/igbo+bride2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: red;">Chioma Ejide is a graduate of Banking and Finance from the University of Nigeria Nsukka.
A gentle and quiet lady with an imaginative mind and fierce spirit,
she loves to read and watch movies. And sometimes write.</span></b></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: red;">She is the May, 2015 winner of the monthly African Story Tellers short story competition. </span></b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-58204827930218166382015-06-04T14:55:00.003-07:002015-06-18T22:29:21.036-07:00THE CONSUMMATION- BY CHIOMA EJIDE (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
THE CONSUMMATION- BY CHIOMA EJIDE (c) 2015</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR70UmdFidAnGDRVfq3eadIXIateSg6UzRa80JRvzr2lAbBpTFemiNUgtSlspRsfodYJLUVwwGDC92cVn2tT0oHkX8M6mF5ABKcrIeIeclKRaYozsTAH49nkZXXCVmhG_clczH6atiBY4/s1600/AfricanQueen1-400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR70UmdFidAnGDRVfq3eadIXIateSg6UzRa80JRvzr2lAbBpTFemiNUgtSlspRsfodYJLUVwwGDC92cVn2tT0oHkX8M6mF5ABKcrIeIeclKRaYozsTAH49nkZXXCVmhG_clczH6atiBY4/s320/AfricanQueen1-400x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
‘Woman, swear before your in-laws that you brought up your daughter in the way of the land, that you taught her the rudiments of being a good wife and above all, that you made sure she kept herself for her husband only’, Onyema, the oldest man in the land asked as his gaze swept across the people present and rested on Nwanneka.<br />
Nwanneka looked at her only daughter Chika. She was all dressed up and looking very beautiful. Nwanneka had bought h<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">er the latest jigida and had gotten Nnenna the best in Uli drawing to paint Chika’s skin. You may not have a father or siblings to cheer you on this day but you will look like a </span></div>
<a name='more'></a>princess, she had told Chika.<br />
Nwanneka shivered inwardly. She could swear that she had taught her everything that was asked. She was sure of everything. Everything but the last question. Her mind flashed back to three moons ago when she had seen Chika with Obiora in a passionate kiss. She had dragged Chika away and had given her the beating of her life. Chika had sworn that Obiora had not touched her. What if he had?<br />
Her mind wandered to eight moons ago when Chizoba the daughter of her best friend Onyinye got married. She had been soiled by another man. The disgrace had been too much for Nwakaego’s father. He had been discovered three days after swinging from the palm tree behind his hut.<br />
Chika don’t put me to shame Nwanneka pleaded silently with her eyes as she looked at her daughter. Their eyes met. Chika looked away. Her mother’s heart constricted.<br />
‘Woman I am asking... Onyema began, irritation seeping into his voice.<br />
‘Yes I swear nna anyi.’<br />
‘You can now take your wife in while we wait for proof’, Onyema said handing Chika over to Obinna.<br />
The men present smirked as Obinna led his new wife into the ceremonial hut. The women folded their arms on their bosom, waiting.<br />
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Nwanneka</span> stood with a shaky smile,waiting.<br />
Time crawled. <span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Nwanneka</span> was scared. What was taking so long, she thought. She tried to not look worried. The women looked at her with pity in their eyes.<br />
The door opened. Obinna walked out. He held a white cloth in his hands.<br />
He was not smiling.<br />
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Nwanneka</span> could not breathe.<br />
He walked up to her.<br />
The silence in the place was electrifying.<br />
Then he smiled.<br />
And spread the cloth.<br />
The red patch on the cloth was visible to all.<br />
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Nwanneka</span> burst into tears.<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUrMrUTWHFiU5jcUWAziRn6SecEROK7qUdF0KNU4aZz779pRJcZVRU2GLkLZQpM5E2J4Cg4gPKXIZdQhb80A2pYcsFR2lkqgw1unLLnDTHdnmKnDF7fjHbZZ2wHQrFRW6qhXdALkNDNk/s1600/chioma+ejide+winner+for+May.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUrMrUTWHFiU5jcUWAziRn6SecEROK7qUdF0KNU4aZz779pRJcZVRU2GLkLZQpM5E2J4Cg4gPKXIZdQhb80A2pYcsFR2lkqgw1unLLnDTHdnmKnDF7fjHbZZ2wHQrFRW6qhXdALkNDNk/s320/chioma+ejide+winner+for+May.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: red;">Chioma Ejide is a graduate of Banking and Finance from the University of Nigeria Nsukka.
A gentle and quiet lady with an imaginative mind and fierce spirit,
she loves to read and watch movies. And sometimes write.</span></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: red;">She is the May, 2015 winner of the monthly African Story Tellers short story competition. </span></b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-61425900007544482462015-06-04T14:14:00.001-07:002015-06-04T14:14:25.820-07:00THE MURDERER -By Ogbole Agala (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">THE MURDERER -By Ogbole Agala (c) 2015</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6lg3UfpWf1nfzNeqs2kp2H79yBZXg8IMtpDImbEDfIawQZjUyfhchpXP2GyXkFLKsEzwUkgA3PGlJh39OZZzWnGk0mQGMNJ8hxzLQv_R9qqn66bD-48CpH7c1nEaNkwpVDJEYohApXM/s1600/HIV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6lg3UfpWf1nfzNeqs2kp2H79yBZXg8IMtpDImbEDfIawQZjUyfhchpXP2GyXkFLKsEzwUkgA3PGlJh39OZZzWnGk0mQGMNJ8hxzLQv_R9qqn66bD-48CpH7c1nEaNkwpVDJEYohApXM/s320/HIV.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">Otache, you are a very wicked man. In fact, you are the kind of murderer St John talked about in the Holy Book of Revelations 21:8. You have done the unthinkable to your wife.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">I remember vividly when Enewa married you against her father’s wish. That man must have been a prophet, to know how much of a wolf in sheep clothing you are. You blinded her eyes with mammon, s</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">o she couldn’t read the handwriting on the wall that cautioned her to run for her dear life. Now, she is dead because of you, and the absence of control between your thighs.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a>You and I could see how everything was wrong with that girl they call Flora, right from the first day we saw her at Iron Lady’s ogogoro joint. Didn’t you even see how she drowned herself in liquor that day, and misbehaved like a drunken masquerade? You still insisted on chasing her up and down like a mad he-goat. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.<br />If not for Awanda - the hospital attendant, you may not have known on time what you bought from Flora with your own money. He was the one who told you he had seen her many times on the special queue at the hospital. He said that after you told him how you enjoy Flora more than your own wife. Come to think of it, is Enewa your respectful and industrious wife not ten times more beautiful than Flora? You say variety is the spice of life abi?<br />After you got to know your status, you sought to prolong your evil life. You engaged the secret service of Awanda to deliver anti retroviral drugs to you behind every body’s back. You went the extra mile to hide all information concerning your infection, just to cover your shame. You did not even tell Enewa your wife, even though you knew how you switched turns between her and Flora. In fact, you had already supplied the virus to her before you knew you had it; but you swallowed the drugs alone, letting her immune system wane. She discovered her status after visiting the hospital, upon the failure of self-medication to curtail her unusual illness at regular intervals. You beat her up when she confronted you for infecting her. She began to take an overdose of the anti retroviral drugs, thinking she could enjoy more time on earth. It was already too late, as symptoms were manifest.<br />Family and friends ran away from her, erroneously trying to avoid contracting the virus. Did they not know that it could only be transferred through body fluids like blood? Did they not know that caring for her would have gone a long way in helping her cope? Even you Otache, you were seldom by her side.<br />Now, you are pouring out crocodile tears on the grave you dug for her, when you should actually be the one in it.<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-StVwxEMYutsitAQO14SPR0R180F0K20WLZoS5zkWt1pA0RISnXGlv6h660JMYpsJ7tnkMPbxBsamwcVfL8TaxsVy2TFLQrsyaPp37sVy3x0ldMnfljD_mOHXGZcq1roOiLFwyusZTc/s1600/ogbole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-StVwxEMYutsitAQO14SPR0R180F0K20WLZoS5zkWt1pA0RISnXGlv6h660JMYpsJ7tnkMPbxBsamwcVfL8TaxsVy2TFLQrsyaPp37sVy3x0ldMnfljD_mOHXGZcq1roOiLFwyusZTc/s320/ogbole.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Ogbole Agala is a native of Benue State, Nigeria. Heis a Legal practitioner, a professional/creative writer, a Christian, and a core Nigerian Patriot.</b></span></span></div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-61609842531606537042015-03-25T14:19:00.000-07:002015-03-25T14:19:43.418-07:00PARADOX- BY Chinenye Osinachi Egwu (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
PARADOX- BY Chinenye Osinachi Egwu (c) 2015</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgMZvUElf1qe4XrHOl1ZGdkKO8Kp_-7isdocGQXNqfBBvjvUzmJFC2Pliu-zuM40pJ91WMD5ZXW5V3bcFdew5RCom6sPVnpKHzr3361zTJ1yHTIFXi1qhtlScpgN0CdnYook2ii-BYZI/s1600/terrorist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgMZvUElf1qe4XrHOl1ZGdkKO8Kp_-7isdocGQXNqfBBvjvUzmJFC2Pliu-zuM40pJ91WMD5ZXW5V3bcFdew5RCom6sPVnpKHzr3361zTJ1yHTIFXi1qhtlScpgN0CdnYook2ii-BYZI/s1600/terrorist.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I hit the rewind button and watched the video for the umpteenth time. When it got to my favorite part, I hit the pause button.<br />The dark eyes, staring straight at me, through the openings of the hood had haunted me. When I closed my eyes, I saw him. When I looked in the mirror, I saw him in every six-foot ten, well built man I came across. He was the leader of the insurgents that beheaded my husband alongside others. I hit the play button. I watched as my husband said his last prayers, on his knees, head bowed, then lift his eyes to the camera and mouth the words : "I love you, wifey." I didn't cry.<br />The beheading happened months ago. I had a miscarriage then. I had to send the kids to my sister in London. Two months later, the leader was captured and a long trial ensued. He was found guilty and condemned to death. Good. That was what I was waiting for - JUSTIFICATION. </div>
<a name='more'></a>I hit the play button again and watched as my husband was gutted like a goat, his head severed and placed on his body that lay faced down, hands tied behind him. He died a brave man.<br />I had watched on the news that the leader was to be moved to a maximum security prison in two days. I already had things planned. I finished the video, got my things and left the house. Two days later, it was on the news that a pregnant woman in a hijab had helped him escape. All they had was a blurred picture of the woman leading him away from the decoy van after having shot the guards with tranquilizers.<br />"You are not pregnant ", a voice said behind me<br />" Ah, " I said, my eyes still on the TV, "finally, you are awake"<br />"Who are you and what is this place? " When I didn't answer, he added," I demand to know why I am tied up!"<br />"You will demand nothing ", I said, turning to face him<br />" I know you ", he said, narrowing his eyes to slits," you are wife of one of those infidels". He remembered. Good.<br />I didn't utter a word. I just went to work, hanging a mock flag of the insurgents behind him then place the video camera on the tripod and face him. I picked up the knife from the table and while testing its sharpness, said :<br />"You will announce your cowardice to the world - "<br />" I have nothing to say to you "<br />" - and tell the world how sorry you are - "<br />" I will do no such thing, especially, not to a mere woman"<br />I stopped talking, walked to him and punched him thrice on the mouth, "you will not interrupt me" it started to swell immediately. I continued, "and you will tell the real reason behind your terrorism".<br />He spat on the floor and said :"I will have you on your back, your legs spread wide apart, begging like the whore you are". He spat again<br />I squatted in front of him and held his little toe in my hand. I sliced it a little with the knife and blood trickled down to the ground. He didn't flinch. I got up and replaced the knife and picked up the shears instead. I held the little toe between its blades and asked again :<br />"Will you acknowledge and confess your crimes against humanity? "<br />" I will not stop until I have your blood and the blood of other infidel whores spilled into the sea!"<br />Snap! The shears cut his toe off without difficulty. He bit his lower lip and stifled a cry. His breath became heavier, his eyes bulged and the veins on his neck stood out. By the time I had finished off his toes, he had passed out. I cleaned up the mess. I didn't want my video looking messed up. I woke him up by holding a towel doused with ammonia under his nose. His eyes snapped open and he started screaming. I allowed him to scream to his heart's content<br />"Are you ready now? " I asked when he finally stopped<br />" No! "<br />" Okay ". I positioned the Bunsen burner right under his balls. I forgot to mention that he was naked. I lit up the burner. He started to fidget as it got hotter. Soon, the smell of roast meat filled the air. Sweat dripped down his well muscled body to the floor. Tears rolled from his eyes. He nodded frantically, indicating that he was ready to cooperate. I put off the fire, cleaned him up and put on the video camera. He said exactly what I wanted him to say.<br />Thirty minutes later, we were through. I switched off the video camera and uploaded its contents to all the TV news channels' websites all over the country. Then I relit the burner.<br />"I thought you would let me go? " he pleaded. He looked so pathetic.<br />" Did I?" I asked blandly. He screamed so loud. His flesh continued to roast until a "pffft" sound was heard. He soon stopped screaming. I checked his heartbeat and pulse. He was dead. I dragged him-still tied to the chair- to the deck of the sailboat and threw his body overboard into the sea where the sharks would get him. Too bad he won't be meeting his 72 virgins a complete man. I cleaned up the place, poured myself a double Scotch, lit a cigarette, reclined on a chair and watched videos of my family. It was then that I cried. It was then that I grieved my husband.<br />Two days later, helicopters were seen flying over the affected villages that the insurgents had terrorized with letters of apology and renouncement thrown from them.<br />Up in the streets, they call it murder<br />In the real streets, they call it JUSTICE.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChZPNwfEuVHvJIHiTgZExynlqD1bY97ki0oKUgRctpfhu7ITodvxHasRY3oR7CCZtWIx5eYhmYoetYnfJxd-9z5Xvch96vHRpiiLJcEmrefyNPKtskXIdFz_OePGNKusZgQlYwwYmYns/s1600/terrorist+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChZPNwfEuVHvJIHiTgZExynlqD1bY97ki0oKUgRctpfhu7ITodvxHasRY3oR7CCZtWIx5eYhmYoetYnfJxd-9z5Xvch96vHRpiiLJcEmrefyNPKtskXIdFz_OePGNKusZgQlYwwYmYns/s1600/terrorist+(1).jpg" height="320" width="209" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b><i>Chinenye Osinachi Egwu is a single mother, medical laboratory scientist and a politician. She lives in Port Harcourt,</i></b></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-30013596073112025392015-03-24T13:35:00.002-07:002015-03-24T13:35:46.594-07:00JUJU by Ogbole Agala ©2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> JUJU<i> by Ogbole Agala </i></span></b><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">©</span></i></b><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">2015</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tGYJV6liq0b0vJbyUD9PlCLvBvk1t_GJaSk6tR6CRE0z02QNUxWmLdtTKhr8e0W00cJrEGU9ct_QVpLrWrVAb3VjyL6cHG5V2F8oUIKHnHBwpRZX3L1zPc3OCrDhxVvWwe3VQvhCNEg/s1600/juju.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tGYJV6liq0b0vJbyUD9PlCLvBvk1t_GJaSk6tR6CRE0z02QNUxWmLdtTKhr8e0W00cJrEGU9ct_QVpLrWrVAb3VjyL6cHG5V2F8oUIKHnHBwpRZX3L1zPc3OCrDhxVvWwe3VQvhCNEg/s1600/juju.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">Last night, Olambi walked face-back
into the room where he kills people. He shut the door in front of him, after
looking around to ensure nobody saw him enter. He lit a candle, rolled his
raffia mat open, and emptied a bag of cowries on it. A white circle was already
inscribed around his left eye, so he marked some spots on the ground with the
leftover chalk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>Once he poured some water into a pot in the midst of the room,
he lit six more candles, and ensured that the black goat he tied to a log of
wood in the room was still on ground. Then he sat down and began to say many
things to Abah<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">s image which he invoked
into the pot of water.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">“</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">Tonight, your end begins</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">…</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">it is terrible to be a fool when your cup is full</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">…</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">Schooling has done more harm than
good to you. It has sapped reason from your head, and filled it with shadows
that drag you into pits you dig with your ignorance. They tell you this and
that, and you abandon the truth with which you were bred. You walk with high
shoulders, and look upon the rest of us with disgust. Well your feigned
ignorance is a good thing for people like me, whose art flourishes on the
foolishness of people like you</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">”</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">Olambi dipped a calabash into the
pot, sang the <i>ij</i></span><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">ẻ</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> n</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">ọ</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">bi</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> and fetched some water
for the goat to drink. He chanted many incantations, and spoke to Abah</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">s image while he waited for the moon to appear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">“</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">You say you do not believe in our powers, neither do you
believe in the one above. You subscribe to none, because you think you know
something...you think you are wise. You lie to yourself and act upon it. You do
not know that there is more to life than meets the eye</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">…</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">I pity you...i really pity you!</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">”</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">When he could see the moon through
his window, it was full and good for a witness. All the candles went off,
signifying the right time for the exchange. Olambi bathed the goat with water
from the pot, and sprinkled ashes on its head. He perfected the process with
many incantations, and tied the goat</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">s
neck with a new rope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">The next day, news spread around the
neighbourhood like wild fire. Abah's new wife called the village to inform his
relatives that he left his office in Victoria Island Lagos, and ran to Balogun
market without clothes. Tempers flared, and relying on precedents, everyone had
one man in mind. The police salvaged Olambi from the hands of a fierce mob that
ambushed him, accusing him of </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">“</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">doing
it</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">”</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> once again. He told them
at the station that he knew nothing about Abah</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">s madness, that in fact, it really shocked him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">After so much contention, some youths
decided to file an action against Olambi in court, on a charge of witchcraft.
He simply laughed when the information got to him. The last time he was in
court on the same charge, the judge let him go, saying there was no such thing
as </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">“</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">witchcraft or juju</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">”</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> under our written laws; hence, no valid charge against him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">Olambi will go back home a free man,
and keep up with his art. No one knows who the next goat will be if he is not
stopped by all means. This is what happens when we use papers and western
influence as excuses for denying realities. If the books and the system would
not, we must stop some things by ourselves. We must stop people like Olambi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIbg4ehIKUE5_4MIcNFtj-lsZYupphaoqUj_-d1FgzAI5dE23JX-waWkbbTVk-RmiNnNOUjKQ36hMtolUwmAy2GllQ6HMLQCDPdTcy6nxs-iPqHGkUW-qHgBZUvwSlnlkrpubEhAcZbY/s1600/juju2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIbg4ehIKUE5_4MIcNFtj-lsZYupphaoqUj_-d1FgzAI5dE23JX-waWkbbTVk-RmiNnNOUjKQ36hMtolUwmAy2GllQ6HMLQCDPdTcy6nxs-iPqHGkUW-qHgBZUvwSlnlkrpubEhAcZbY/s1600/juju2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-30785125687495548792015-03-18T23:31:00.002-07:002015-03-18T23:31:30.255-07:00DAMAGED –By Chinasa Sunny Joe © 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b>DAMAGED –By Chinasa Sunny
Joe © 2015</b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9s7vsi0vPALbVT5rI5StqMIAOJU8kZHk2oOlixcApJMUeLxpk0I6PPugUf0Ipb7P_rEQy2H48bxCxhH4cjNoNrd1-np0grQ6JfbznH4ZQPVl80AGSWN7nhoF2Z_0AKkGbid02i4ng-BI/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9s7vsi0vPALbVT5rI5StqMIAOJU8kZHk2oOlixcApJMUeLxpk0I6PPugUf0Ipb7P_rEQy2H48bxCxhH4cjNoNrd1-np0grQ6JfbznH4ZQPVl80AGSWN7nhoF2Z_0AKkGbid02i4ng-BI/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM+3.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On my way home from
visiting a friend I saw Uzor. He lives in the same street as my friend. He
stood in front of his one room apartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Onyiyechi”, he
greeted, “How are you? Come and greet me”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Uzor was a distant
relative of mine. Can’t exactly place the relation but I believe my father and
his share the same grandmother. He usually visits at my family compound, eats
and jokes with us. So, I didn’t hesitate to go to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We chatted till
darkness covered and people began entering their homes for the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I’ll be on my way now, before my mother looks
for me”, I said getting up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Onyi don’t worry, she
won’t complain if she knows you’re with me”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>He was holding my hand
firmly. “Let’s go inside and talk some more”, he said, pulling me towards
himself. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By then I knew what he
was asking for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “No! Mama won’t like it”, I said, squirming
with discomfort, trying to free his grip. He rubbed my hands, moving slowly
towards my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Let me go!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I pushed, but what power does a 14 year old
girl has above a man of over thirty. He overpowered me and dragged me into his
room. All my kicking, scratching and screaming were useless. He forced himself
on me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I got home that day covered in sweat, tears
and blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Everyone was appalled
by Uzor’s actions. My brother’s went to confront him, but before they got to
him gossip of what occurred had spread; one started by Uzor. “I fucked Uche’s
sister”, were his words - Uche being my oldest brother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My family was silent
about it. My sisters were warned never to confront Uzor about the rape. I saw
especially on my brothers’ face, shame and anger and I was sad that I brought
such embarrassment to them. They didn’t confront Uzor for his action. At a
point my mother blamed me for it. She was convinced I seduced him somehow. It
enraged me how mother and wives always make excuses for their men even when
they know the men are wrong. It’s always the woman who is at fault. She takes
the blame even for atrocities done on her. The man is never wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYF_pYF8sG1ZYrq6yHdscMPOWkHlgVcpL5rxfwjBRuLCCcFCqFiTZ_vRwpxeqjiykyzI43nd_NMY8gT2Pbhlc-_Xb1s-pbN09ARddZW1C7QzKjj5M_OFsLcK1JnzN6es56-aY3Sw9yw0k/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYF_pYF8sG1ZYrq6yHdscMPOWkHlgVcpL5rxfwjBRuLCCcFCqFiTZ_vRwpxeqjiykyzI43nd_NMY8gT2Pbhlc-_Xb1s-pbN09ARddZW1C7QzKjj5M_OFsLcK1JnzN6es56-aY3Sw9yw0k/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM.jpg" height="194" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Uzor began visiting
our home again. Everyone accepted him, without confrontation. My family treated
him the like nothing had happened. I lived with shame and low self-esteem
through it all. I spent most of my time indoors (and I’m an outdoor girl). I
felt betrayed by my family; no one fought for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then one day, Uzor
came in gallantly into the compound. It was late at night. Everyone was around
that day. He greeted my brothers, and they greeted back. Then, Okoro, the
youngest went to lock the gate. That was the cue. My brothers pounced on Uzor,
with planks, ropes and long whips, stripped him of his beautiful clothes, tied
him to a bench and scourged him till he fainted. Then they threw him out to the
street, naked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now I understood the
silence my family exercised was a plot not of shame. With it they made Uzor
believe all was well. Lured him into their palms and crushed him. It felt good
to see Uzor pay for his crimes, even better was that my family fought for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Regardless, I knew no
amount of scourging on Uzor could reverse what he inflicted on me. He has not
only stripped me of my dignity, he has killed my trust and faith in men,
scarred me and left me damaged for life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyq2kOOlEPcd79xOQux4SoXb4Hg3SnACuG6MhGbS2EZqs-06gDQNn622wc29EM3lUmB0FD2MM_GqpFoR0mj0WVTSkw9TkBb9OwHMPEXX2ySfFMC_9euHXY_GfWpeyDtv3XJqrrrkOT24/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyq2kOOlEPcd79xOQux4SoXb4Hg3SnACuG6MhGbS2EZqs-06gDQNn622wc29EM3lUmB0FD2MM_GqpFoR0mj0WVTSkw9TkBb9OwHMPEXX2ySfFMC_9euHXY_GfWpeyDtv3XJqrrrkOT24/s1600/RAPE+VICTIM2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><i>CHINASA SUNNY JOE was the February 2015 edition winner of the African Story Tellers 100 WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION. A budding writer, she intends to focus on her writing career in the belief that she may become another prolific female writer from Nigeria. She lives in Port Harcourt, Nigeria.</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-22207005857051771802015-03-08T09:17:00.001-07:002015-03-08T09:17:12.243-07:00STORY FOR THE GODS- By OGBOLE AGALA (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Story for the gods -</span></b><i style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">By Ogbole Agala (2015)</span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIixpF11RjgThc8QB3vUiGdLW3toQu9peo-OCJDlZ_d4annM3Sa8PzVacWFmSNjIFAoqwacHMwSYZxRFTcrqOCFRqoZnr3g7yOePH_CuMf3EFskc_scv1DyL1tYdWWkc9QEEGC4tWyXQ/s1600/Rape-victim-010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIixpF11RjgThc8QB3vUiGdLW3toQu9peo-OCJDlZ_d4annM3Sa8PzVacWFmSNjIFAoqwacHMwSYZxRFTcrqOCFRqoZnr3g7yOePH_CuMf3EFskc_scv1DyL1tYdWWkc9QEEGC4tWyXQ/s1600/Rape-victim-010.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My name stinks in everyone's nose, so it doesn’t come out of any
ones mouth in the whole of my village. My countenance is like the under
garments of a masquerade, everyone looks away once they see my face. I am Onchenya,
that brat whose crime was her inability to shut her basket mouth just like
every other girl in her shoes.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Women look upon me with red eyes, wishing they could just claw me
to pieces and feed my good-for-nothing flesh to vultures.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I disgust every man here, they all want to prey on me, and so they
could be on the heroic side of my calamity.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>I don't blame them; we were bred to believe that whoever has
testicles is never wrong. Those of us who do not have must always watch,
listen, pretend, close our mouths, and remain wrong.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My days had beautiful colours. Some were yellow, others were
white. Some were green, others were pink or purple. Some days were just grey.
But three months ago, I had a black Friday – a day that calls the shots in my
heavy head. My neck groans, the weight on it is unbearable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mama, the woman I grew up believing was my mother, came to the
clinic to tell me the whole truth in the presence of other women who came to
make me ashamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Heeding to your
mother’s plea and dying wish was a great undoing on my part…you are not my
daughter, you can never be!...see the shame you have brought upon me…a woman
should keep quiet and never tell such abominable stories…you are doomed
already”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Her words pierced my heart like a dagger…I died. That day, I knew
I inherited the misfortune that offered me a bed space in the clinic from my
mother. She did not even know my father. Mama agreed to cater for her after she
was banished from her village, upon discovery that she was pregnant for a man
she did not know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpllzowz-Z7GFyp9QXA5fau-AOVm0xRjZ6Uw1wg-KyXD_YQQNBs44UqWQzW3OyUTq5flMoiAoNJgmSmBFg_wZbN8ENqd8f2QUMOJkXY2RcOCh7vzIfbTVMDcAdFyJvpJTGatACyucpzDo/s1600/rape+victim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpllzowz-Z7GFyp9QXA5fau-AOVm0xRjZ6Uw1wg-KyXD_YQQNBs44UqWQzW3OyUTq5flMoiAoNJgmSmBFg_wZbN8ENqd8f2QUMOJkXY2RcOCh7vzIfbTVMDcAdFyJvpJTGatACyucpzDo/s1600/rape+victim.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My tragedy happened like magic. I screamed and struggled, but it
all made no sense. One big palm covered my mouth, and four others grabbed my
hands and legs firmly. They moved rapidly, till we were far away from the foot
path. The sun had gone to sleep, so I could not make out any face. Even the
moon ran far away from me, to hide from my shame. I closed my eyes and wept
right from my heart. They took turns to use their filthy things on me...to rend
my pride to pieces. Blood every where…that was just the beginning of my time in
hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I managed to pick the pieces of my shattered clothing, just enough
to tie around my waist, and to cover my breasts. I could barely walk to the
police station, my strength was gone, I thought I would die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Officer Magdalene, the beautiful lady posted from town to the new
police station in our village, was on duty that night. I could see the rage in
her eyes as she asked me so many questions. At intervals, she went to a corner
to dry her eyes with a small handkerchief she pulled out of her pocket. She
gave me a blanket, to shield me from the cold that got me shivering from inside
out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> “I will help you write all </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">you've</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> said and you
will sign…we have to visit the clinic…those bastards and godforsaken vagabonds
must pay for what they have done”</span></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Her words were like soothing balm to my soul. She embraced me and
it made me feel much better, I wished it was forever. She took me to the clinic
and sent for Mama and some other women in our village. Soon, they all heard
about everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mama ran into the clinic with the others. I could not hold back
tears when I saw the looks on their faces...the rage in their eyes. To think
they brought succor was in my wildest imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mama wasted no time to tell me how my mother conceived me after
she was raped by unknown men. She died fifteen years ago, on the day I was
born. Mama agreed to take care of me as her own daughter. Mama did not wait for
me to believe this strange story before she stormed out of the clinic,
disowning me for bringing so much shame upon her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Don’t you know that
such abominable stories are not for the ears of mortals…?”</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Then, I realized how many other girls bear such chains on their
necks, ashamed to tell their stories; drowning daily in the sea of their own
bitterness. My leaking mouth landed me in trouble...I became an abomination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">No one talked about the men who brought all of this upon me. They
were only concerned about the shame I brought upon myself and every other woman
by saying the things that should be kept secret, and told only to the gods in
whose hands lay vengeance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I cry every day, for myself and the many other women who die in
silence, telling their stories only to gods who have no ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I cry for this tiny little mortal growing inside of me. Sometimes I
pray it is a man, so he can be free from this darkness. Other times, I fear it
is a woman, who will walk this shameful path someday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I long for the days when our so called abominable stories will be
good for the ears of men, maybe when the gods also learn to tear women apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFWkFUDvRJtKEkxStdqDTHzo7RSnGJNLO4FErKsnsMeUMMal-j3Y5ab3iXIL45drq5k5JBsjbE4tKoJWb2N2YpVaYxnT2_fR_fFKTRiFclrH4F7RAucvB7Uowyy5CekJ6ZXtTd63zWNg/s1600/rape+victim2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFWkFUDvRJtKEkxStdqDTHzo7RSnGJNLO4FErKsnsMeUMMal-j3Y5ab3iXIL45drq5k5JBsjbE4tKoJWb2N2YpVaYxnT2_fR_fFKTRiFclrH4F7RAucvB7Uowyy5CekJ6ZXtTd63zWNg/s1600/rape+victim2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Ogbole Agala is a native of Benue State, Nigeria. He is a Legal practitioner, a professional/creative writer, a Christian, and a core Nigerian Patriot.</b></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-29050649296468677602015-02-21T05:56:00.001-08:002015-02-21T13:39:12.900-08:00WHERE I SLEEP-BY JOHN AFERE (C) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>WHERE I
SLEEP- BY JOHN AFERE (c) 2015</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcmDMFLCVv7oN_UehAztAl-9x9ZUf2Wnoed0NdekHwj9tlCbdDmg81RL-6sNf0IpKubcP9_MmuuRPHsj9ilBCjymG2b9MlsgKrZmll5n7GYi8pI3ic8jTusRf0FbtF5JQf03PZv_hvCI/s1600/ghoul+n+i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcmDMFLCVv7oN_UehAztAl-9x9ZUf2Wnoed0NdekHwj9tlCbdDmg81RL-6sNf0IpKubcP9_MmuuRPHsj9ilBCjymG2b9MlsgKrZmll5n7GYi8pI3ic8jTusRf0FbtF5JQf03PZv_hvCI/s1600/ghoul+n+i.jpg" /></a></b></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I know I'm
way too old to be sleeping in my parent's bedroom, but the saying goes that
monsters can't touch you when you sleep next to your parents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I mean
think about it, your parents are there to protect you right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So yes, I
am way bigger than monster stories and ghosts. That’s not the problem I have.
The problem I have is as big as my head. I think too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I read too
much, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB">When I
turned thirteen, two years ago, and other kids were getting Play Station
consoles, my father got me the complete works of William Shakespeare. I
devoured it in 3 months, decided it was good and then proceeded to do the same thing
to just about every other book in his library.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Outside, in
the public library, I read what books I could find. Everything ranging from
American thrillers to Zulu folklore. (That is A-Z, right?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was big
on Philosophy and Psychology and more recently, I have begun to delve into
occult.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is
this book I am reading at the moment: Onakam. It tells of Garnaviel and Geshac-demon
twins from Babylon sitting atop on the hierarchy of the gods. I discovered that
there are more people who belong to this ancient cult, nowadays, than I can
even imagine. I do my research and find that many people who claim to be
Christians belong to this sect<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Many of
them in my neighbourhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> And the things they do- this is the very
source of my fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well it
just so happens that every night my imagination gets the better of me, so,
while my parents are asleep, I sneak into their bedroom and lay beside them. In
the morning they really don't mind finding me sleeping next to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think I
also have an added advantage in the fact that I am an only child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYab5zc1fdJPZrag-AnRpqKJJW3_Uls0Ip3ecqRdW7cWVAgxBNSk5SlGUJ_i59wFSiA-QxokVoj_ltpfYqUFL10wQVwN5SvSC8Dc5qJvEEyA4L-7XkM1GOAdZhHhhG0FXmWVAYfYYpPI/s1600/ghoul+n+i+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYab5zc1fdJPZrag-AnRpqKJJW3_Uls0Ip3ecqRdW7cWVAgxBNSk5SlGUJ_i59wFSiA-QxokVoj_ltpfYqUFL10wQVwN5SvSC8Dc5qJvEEyA4L-7XkM1GOAdZhHhhG0FXmWVAYfYYpPI/s1600/ghoul+n+i+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Last night,
I had a terrible dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In it, I
saw that something entered our house. I hadn’t seen its face, but I’d known it
was from the abyss of centuries steeped in the ugliness of the dark arts. There
were creepy voices and incantations. Spells and symbols. I thought I heard
someone calling my name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I once
again sneaked into my parent's bedroom making sure I don't wake them up (they get
really cranky if I do).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Squeezing
in between my mom and dad, I lay down to close my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I could
finally sleep and forget about my horrible dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That was
when I heard the front door close and saw my parent's car drive into the
highway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They were going
out? So who the hell were these people in my parent’s room?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I made to
stand up, but a leg pinned me down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I heard the
raspy voice come from beside me, "How safe do you feel, now?"<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlXaFMk9ZKUcC0ZplNh0VHleo8m2IsfZ83QiAJNJdPwLuS1cZo2vtz-Kzmr2Q5mREKIUeUmZz2spVa-yN6Dja1FnSPuXcu8zmsAqGwpeZJnERfQcGfvd_8WX1EjMMY5jRMN1q1Y7qKAI/s1600/ghoul+n+i+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlXaFMk9ZKUcC0ZplNh0VHleo8m2IsfZ83QiAJNJdPwLuS1cZo2vtz-Kzmr2Q5mREKIUeUmZz2spVa-yN6Dja1FnSPuXcu8zmsAqGwpeZJnERfQcGfvd_8WX1EjMMY5jRMN1q1Y7qKAI/s1600/ghoul+n+i+3.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>John Afere is a medical student, a playwright, a novelist and a poet. He has been writing professionally since 2013. He speaks 3 languages and is a martial arts enthusiast. He lives in Festac town, Lagos</b></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-26349652736705723832015-02-08T10:01:00.001-08:002015-02-21T05:35:28.644-08:00TOM AND JERRY- By JOHN AFERE (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>TOM AND
JERRY- By JOHN AFERE (c) 2015</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUayr3xD7xNlbQB0w7Zd_MFkRolKN5w_FRalHzb49BDkps7YrRtc8EppvoWp7HrJnCXY7lezR1FP-37M-i_aqC9DkvqdAtBYyc4FHf18vs_KReTmSuit8CLSk_ZQmhrqQ9R4mAH8gkIfE/s1600/tom+and+jerry4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUayr3xD7xNlbQB0w7Zd_MFkRolKN5w_FRalHzb49BDkps7YrRtc8EppvoWp7HrJnCXY7lezR1FP-37M-i_aqC9DkvqdAtBYyc4FHf18vs_KReTmSuit8CLSk_ZQmhrqQ9R4mAH8gkIfE/s1600/tom+and+jerry4.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You are a
bad father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You pretend
that you care about daughter, but you really don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The only
thing you care about is the voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Presently,
the two of you sit watching TV. She hates drinking hot stuff, so she pushes her
cup of coffee aside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You think
about the expression the bull had on its face just before it was executed. Lord,
you really love El Matador.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Your
daughter is saying something about some cartoon named Justice League. A 14 year
old girl, who climbs trees, plays football and who loves her Xbox like it’s a
Barbie doll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You sip
your coffee and grunt changing the channel. The only cartoon they have is Tom
and Jerry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Daddy, why
does Whiskers always leave dead mice outside our door?" Your sweet
daughter asks innocently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You love
how inquisitive she is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">"Well
sweetie,” you laugh. “It's actually kind
of funny. Cats don't realize that we don't hunt like they do, so they kill
things to help us because they think we're bad at being cats."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She looks
up at you, arches an eyebrow and laughs: “Really?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You smile
back, like: “Really.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You get
back to watching the cartoon and laugh some more as Jerry beats the hell out of
Tom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later, you
tuck her in and kiss her forehead as she closes her eyes. Then you retreat to
my study to finalize my plans. Tonight is the night. That’s what the voice
says. Tonight is the night you get the bastard who took your daughter's mother
from you. You finish your plans, pack your bag, and head to his house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1CQD9jnsJ4NBOymEYzdbjSP_PuTL_X7D3UoPv7LqWDfhLKe_SGQsutlTzmVMzv7tRuJ0NECWlcBZX_riyVeVdHO6_9NRE0MWxmptdTq_gtdFH2B2-VWqSMfGPDaY0AoPTyyskn4k3lg/s1600/SCARY3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1CQD9jnsJ4NBOymEYzdbjSP_PuTL_X7D3UoPv7LqWDfhLKe_SGQsutlTzmVMzv7tRuJ0NECWlcBZX_riyVeVdHO6_9NRE0MWxmptdTq_gtdFH2B2-VWqSMfGPDaY0AoPTyyskn4k3lg/s1600/SCARY3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Skeleton
keys at the ready. Flashlight out. You disconnect the burglar alert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In 5
minutes, you are in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Except he's
not there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You don't
understand - all your planning, carefully monitoring his movements. He should
have been there. You drive home, frustrated, confused; mourning your wife all
over again for the justice you have been denied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You are angry,
but you open the front door quietly. You do not want to disturb your daughter.
She must be fast asleep by now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You take
one step in, and that is when you see him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Or rather,
his body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It is neatly
displayed on the floor. Stabbed to death, but the blood is cleaned up. No mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Your mind
is a fog of confusion, sadness, and rage, until you hear your daughter's
bedroom door open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> "Don't worry, Daddy. I know you're not
very good at this, so I wanted to help you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i1qfCLa-PEs5NlHUPze0OfqRpd6RX4Fa-V0FrgKT2VYNGVpkzAK_GoL5yeL8wu3CAIkL6TQcDovrsPnt832Y4ATqqrTGFCjTdRzYNiuuWB93etYwImyRoubwEN4SIRffeODUksKyGfM/s1600/tom+and+jerry.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i1qfCLa-PEs5NlHUPze0OfqRpd6RX4Fa-V0FrgKT2VYNGVpkzAK_GoL5yeL8wu3CAIkL6TQcDovrsPnt832Y4ATqqrTGFCjTdRzYNiuuWB93etYwImyRoubwEN4SIRffeODUksKyGfM/s1600/tom+and+jerry.png" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>John Afere is a medical student, a playwright, a novelist and a poet. He has been writing professionally since 2013. He speaks 3 languages and is a martial arts enthusiast. He lives in Festac town, Lagos</b></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-18300117453111937452015-02-08T09:48:00.002-08:002015-02-08T09:48:38.816-08:00SCARE YOU, TOO- By JOHN AFERE (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>SCARE YOU,
TOO- By JOHN AFERE (c) 2015</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurMVlQbDyQa0BBtaQUNtiDaUyXlDbY8ld9BNNol7XDTW2AxihzVB5oB5M-2mR0zcOxfUi1_oERGw9yQipErq-vNfuzfvKF8CJH_T6bRMHihyTqH1nVRAk7a7TIQ7vrs4IEG9YBTvmy4Q/s1600/SCARY+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurMVlQbDyQa0BBtaQUNtiDaUyXlDbY8ld9BNNol7XDTW2AxihzVB5oB5M-2mR0zcOxfUi1_oERGw9yQipErq-vNfuzfvKF8CJH_T6bRMHihyTqH1nVRAk7a7TIQ7vrs4IEG9YBTvmy4Q/s1600/SCARY+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am a
dirty little coward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That’s what
everyone says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My Mom, my
old man, the kids at school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They forget
that I’m just a 15 year old girl!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ok, fine. I
am scared of heights, I am terrified of the dark, I hate horror movies, I hate
sudden noises and I can’t stand anyone who loves these things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>My younger
brother Timi loves to scare me. He thinks it’s hilarious to crouch in a
cupboard and jump out or hide under the bed and grab my ankle. I always yell
(okay, scream) and it never fails to crack him up. He’d laugh and laugh like it
was the funniest thing on earth. And he’d spend the rest of the whole day
teasing me about it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I told Bayo,
my best friend at school about it. Bayo is super smart and into inventing things.
Everyone thought he was crazy. He said he’d build something that would scare
the crap out of Timi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For a bit,
I let him do his thing. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Is what I’d told him one
time when he had crept into my room wearing a very realistic Dracula mask. I
had screamed the house down, my mother had come running upstairs and even
though she had been quite terrified herself, had blamed me for making such a
noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That’s the
price of being the elder sister. I had to laugh in the end. I knew what he was going to get.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A week
later I was in Bayo’s house and he showed me a black box about the size of a
Rubik’s Cube with a camera lens on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Okay, Eno.
Check this out.” Bayo moved out of the door and pointed the box at the wall. “If
I place this just the right distance from the wall and turn it on, you see
this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Projected
on the wall was a life-size, holographic image of a zombie-like creature
looking as if it is walking forward. There was also a very creepy voice loop,
“I’m coming for you, Timi.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was blown
away. “Amazing!” I screamed. “How did you pull this off?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Wasn’t
that complicated,” said Bayo. “Put it in your brother’s room when he’s asleep
and the lights are off and flip this switch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I thought
it was awesome, and I told him so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That night
I did exactly what Bayo said, and waited. Ten minutes went by and I heard
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Fifteen.
And I heard nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I sneaked
down the hallway to Timi’s room. The 3D monster was doing its thing on the
wall. My brother was in bed, eyes wide open, but he wasn’t moving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Timi,” I
whispered. “Timi?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I tried to
wake him up, but he didn’t move. His body felt cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> My eyes widened in horror. I’d killed my
brother. Then the zombie spoke:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’m coming
for you, Eno.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiq2p6JTfk27rJ7HhJs0-NYi_EtsyPa3nAPFQvQnkOaT4EMnVOugXlD1PKdviXOZN0EkSLdnyHhXGWJQLst-C6B4e8JQUEW0mu3GdXBbZqHxTeZ87LwGdJIRYSlpupIkBZbZyTazuofs/s1600/SCARY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiq2p6JTfk27rJ7HhJs0-NYi_EtsyPa3nAPFQvQnkOaT4EMnVOugXlD1PKdviXOZN0EkSLdnyHhXGWJQLst-C6B4e8JQUEW0mu3GdXBbZqHxTeZ87LwGdJIRYSlpupIkBZbZyTazuofs/s1600/SCARY.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>John Afere is a medical student, a playwright, a novelist and a poet. He has been writing professionally since 2013. He speaks 3 languages and is a martial arts enthusiast. He lives in Festac town, Lagos</b></span></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-23006372246327314702015-02-08T09:40:00.003-08:002015-02-08T09:40:33.316-08:00ROSEMARY'S BABY- By John Afere (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-size: large;">ROSEMARY'S
BABY- By John Afere (c) 2015</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiFGlDeMM_5-m3vPhZF6N0CX448DEFAEAWT5aFy6wk9FYrhBe1ClRx05IHlouh4xlu8lTW2T5VuZRGr6dNYAaqL_9NByVsX8SZwNcTjvCd2wpLu0VJKm4GBw4c6_LQCxXOd1QkcW-360/s1600/BABY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZiFGlDeMM_5-m3vPhZF6N0CX448DEFAEAWT5aFy6wk9FYrhBe1ClRx05IHlouh4xlu8lTW2T5VuZRGr6dNYAaqL_9NByVsX8SZwNcTjvCd2wpLu0VJKm4GBw4c6_LQCxXOd1QkcW-360/s1600/BABY.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It took me
16 years after marriage to get a baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Despite all
the things his mother put me through, my husband stood by me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Being a
mother is hard. It's excruciating, so I can imagine how the old witch felt all
those years when we were childless. Truth be told, some days, I really felt
like killing her. It would have been very easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> Now that I have a baby of my own, I think I am
becoming softer. You feel everything much more powerfully as a mother. I knew
the second I saw baby, it was worth it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>Every blood
pressure cuff.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Every
ultrasound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Even the
preeclampsia and the c section<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> I didn't get to hold her first, though. There
was a whole slew of doctors and nurses and then my husband. They said I was out
for several hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The day we
came home was a beautiful day, sparkling and sunny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next
was dreary and dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> And the little baby in the crib was even more
beautiful than she had been the night before. As I rocked and nursed her she
nibbled at me and drew a little blood. My husband kept saying something was
wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That SHE
was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I knew she
was my beautiful little daughter. She was so tiny and fragile, bald, black,
like a little doll made of sticks, but she grew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She grew
and grew and became healthy and strong. I never gave up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her hair
grew longer and longer till it was falling down her shoulders. Her complexion
became perfect ebony. Her body grew thicker and healthier. Soon she was as
chunky and <i>puff-puff</i> cheeked as any
toy store baby doll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her desire
for food grew with her, and with each growth came even more violence from my
husband. All of a sudden, he stopped being the man I knew him to be. He kept
throwing remarks suggesting that he didn’t believe the lady was his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“She isn't
right, Rosemary.” He would say. “She isn't normal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Things got
so bad, that at one point, he tried to drown her in the bath tub but I stopped
him. Who could hurt something so truly innocent and helpless? He was drunk at
the time, so I forgave him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Gradually,
I lost my husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">No, he
didn’t die. He just sort of withdrew into his shell. Became a bonafide
alcoholic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I
didn’t care. I waited for sixteen years for this to happen! Sixteen bitter
years!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m not
going to let anyone destroy my joy, now. I shall pamper my baby. Give her
anything she wants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Presently,
I smile as I wipe some of the gloop off my darling daughter’s face. Such a
messy eater she is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I slip my
husband's wedding ring off the finger she had clutched in her pudgy little
hand. "Wouldn't want you to choke now would we?" I cooed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She smiled
and swallowed the finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYs5EqlkJ5hMCiBV3aJSyKcV4X-P4F6OtzyaAtO1kDddA6oeID0EH9II7HIs05BQSUSEDLUPea-i9DbJ0nqbPTB2cbg27Z1Z4FjkWLePwRuHnFrcbC4it91i3DZVYwnaSiWLF79e9m65A/s1600/BABY3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYs5EqlkJ5hMCiBV3aJSyKcV4X-P4F6OtzyaAtO1kDddA6oeID0EH9II7HIs05BQSUSEDLUPea-i9DbJ0nqbPTB2cbg27Z1Z4FjkWLePwRuHnFrcbC4it91i3DZVYwnaSiWLF79e9m65A/s1600/BABY3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>John Afere is a medical student, a playwright, a novelist and a poet. He has been writing professionally since 2013. He speaks 3 languages and is a martial arts enthusiast. He lives in Festac town, Lagos</b></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-10553771365044153312015-02-04T06:36:00.001-08:002015-02-04T06:36:16.691-08:00MANY BLOODY HANDS -By Ogbole Agala (Winner of January, 2015 Short Story Writing Competition)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The Winner of the January Edition of the African Story Tellers 100-WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION is Ogbole Agala with his entry 'MANY BLOODY HANDS'.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The interesting short story is posted here for your reading and comments. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">MANY BLOODY HAN</span></b></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><b>DS- By Ogbole Agala</b></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 20px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Today, we will darken the sun with our smoke. The brave boys are in the grey room receiving the final instructions before they put on their vests.</span></span><br /><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">We had no problems transporting the consignment down here. All we</span></span><br /><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">had to do was part with some change at each check point, and move on without a search.</span></span><br /><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Believe it or not, we will not be the only ones with blood on our hands at the end of the day.</span></span><br /><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Everybody will learn a lesson. Even the government will learn to stock arsenals before pockets.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">CONGRATULATIONS, SIR!</span></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-sxOr_l_y81lNe_TFHJSFWMGh6YG4x9iUA-WxAQlYsJGVPqb_ORG03PHgwYf6kpGZSPUqRR9CiOiSAqfoHtU-ZsVeLXU5sl0pbU6d60JGZFzL2uIETZTcA_ntGGzzQzkesz_sbkX7KM/s1600/OGBOLE3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-sxOr_l_y81lNe_TFHJSFWMGh6YG4x9iUA-WxAQlYsJGVPqb_ORG03PHgwYf6kpGZSPUqRR9CiOiSAqfoHtU-ZsVeLXU5sl0pbU6d60JGZFzL2uIETZTcA_ntGGzzQzkesz_sbkX7KM/s1600/OGBOLE3.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #f6f7f8; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Ogbole Agala is a
Nigerian, born on 11 February 1989. He is a Legal practitioner; and has deep
interest in professional and creative writing. With many works on diverse
genres of literature to his credit, he believes that reading and writing are
the greatest shape making tools available to mankind.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"> </span></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;">He can be reached on</span></span><span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">: ogboleagala@gmail.com</span></i></b></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-9009117081007941242015-01-17T13:48:00.003-08:002015-01-17T13:48:37.398-08:00JASMINE-By JENNIFER N. MBUNABO (C) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><b>Jasmine-By Jennifer N. Mbunabo (C) 2015</b></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEVW9CMjdbeyF4dqW4ASXQec8Qychli8hr6TKttxWZrWxl_yaRbaVxLYKDs6a2-daKVVj5i_qs1q1UR4M9bXD9Dqx0S7PVCqJClujqkqWkXtAIpwx9AKZ2SSqec81pakDyd_14NG_6Ic/s1600/JASMINE+FLOWER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEVW9CMjdbeyF4dqW4ASXQec8Qychli8hr6TKttxWZrWxl_yaRbaVxLYKDs6a2-daKVVj5i_qs1q1UR4M9bXD9Dqx0S7PVCqJClujqkqWkXtAIpwx9AKZ2SSqec81pakDyd_14NG_6Ic/s1600/JASMINE+FLOWER.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The aromatic scent of jasmine wafts
through the tranquil avenue in Parkview estate. Stephanie turns around to look
for the perfume or flower. She gasps at the rows of brick duplexes with ochre
aluminum roofs and the flamboyant flowers sprouting from a cluster of shrubs,
skirted by short picket fences. </span></span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: small;">She spots the white flower and scurries to the
house where it gleams. She grazes the clump of verdant leaves, plucks the
jasmine and plants it beneath her </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">beak-like</span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> nose. She closes her eyes and snuffles
its freshness, in an effort to remove the clinging odor of stale excreta from
the overflowing septic tanks and sewage pipes clamped to the peeling walls of
the tenement houses on her street in Mushin.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">‘Hey! Get the hell out of my property!’
A hoarse voice with heavy British accent yells from the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She opens her bulgy eyes, looks up and
sees dark eyes peeping through a venetian blind. She rolls her eyes and with a sneering
smile on her soot, angular face, thrusts the flower into her blue jean pocket
and glides down the street. She scuffs the heel of her sandal on the clean,
smooth tarred road devoid of potholes and wags her shaved head because her
abode is the reverse. This sudden realization of the wide disparity between the
two residences engulfs her as she mulls over the events of the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">At the cock’s crow, Stephanie clangs
the high, corroded gate in front of the uncompleted two storey building where
she lives behind her, ignoring her landlord’s squeal to shut it gently. She
clutches her satchel and jumps over a stagnant gutter clogged with tennis balls,
newspapers and Indomie wrappers. Thirsty mosquitoes buzz over its spirogyra
streaked wall and flies perch on its green froth. And her petite torso shakes
as the chilled morning breeze sweeps the foul smell from the gutter into her mottled
cotton shirt and nostrils. She walks briskly on the rut, closing her ears to
the croaking frogs that take turns with the clanking padlocks on the shanties
which their owners unlock to start the business of the day. When she gets
closer to the dew painted buses parked at the terminal, she lessens her pace to
avoid stepping on the cables sprawled on the rugged road. She coasts over to
the left side of the street with dim windows lit up by faint yellow light bulbs
swaying to the direction of the breeze and cranes her neck to see the torn nets
stashed with crumpled papers and black polythene bags, against the broken
louvers. The soggy shutters hang loose on its hinges at the verge of falling
with a gentle push. A putrid stench escapes from two brown cartons that lean
against an electric pole, overflowing with rotten tomatoes, stale soup, peeled
oranges and it hastens her to pull out a handkerchief from her satchel and
cover her nose. She looks askance at the
fat rats whimpering around their feast and the merry flies fluttering across and
heaves a sigh of relief as she finally walks out of her cratered street and
jumps into a crowded bus plying the route to Lagos Island.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Stephanie pulls out the crinkled
jasmine from her pocket and inhales it. It is withering and its delicate
freshness fades slowly to rancidity. She wags her head again in wonder at how a
mother can sleep soundly at night with a malnourished, scrawny, crying toddler
and an overfed teenager beside her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tzblbEvUxkk68Xztqo5H_kko035bkCuTzPSNihnx_6yBEAa__mAEwGrk1LFt6yAgdAustUp3i7kWcgW7Y22B2CC97-12VROfvqbQqWmfxJE0lXw9tq4W3a2xnD7r9mt0tr9meZPUTW0/s1600/JASMINE+FLOWER2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tzblbEvUxkk68Xztqo5H_kko035bkCuTzPSNihnx_6yBEAa__mAEwGrk1LFt6yAgdAustUp3i7kWcgW7Y22B2CC97-12VROfvqbQqWmfxJE0lXw9tq4W3a2xnD7r9mt0tr9meZPUTW0/s1600/JASMINE+FLOWER2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-42281831128045441522015-01-09T23:02:00.002-08:002015-04-23T23:48:58.997-07:00MANGOES- By Jennifer N. Mbunabo (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">MANGOES- By Jennifer N. Mbunabo (c) 2015</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AbwsVTzN8g8uKq-NvMYi_4jtbSceTMUZFhQlb2SqukZsAjkF6lsXU851rHESmvo6s10vCGOeKMEF2UD5ufcyS0r5kyroej2G6zrWUQbMSOTg5NKhWxC0G3bkeXrSp_LMSQECfA8nvCM/s1600/MANGOES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AbwsVTzN8g8uKq-NvMYi_4jtbSceTMUZFhQlb2SqukZsAjkF6lsXU851rHESmvo6s10vCGOeKMEF2UD5ufcyS0r5kyroej2G6zrWUQbMSOTg5NKhWxC0G3bkeXrSp_LMSQECfA8nvCM/s1600/MANGOES.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I do not understand the world. And I
do not pretend to. Understanding my phantom is too much a mystery for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the age of 11, I knew I did not
like boys. But I liked to wear their clothes. My gowns, ribbons and socks did not
fascinate me as much as shirts tucked in shorts with suspenders did. Wearing
shorts and nothing more was preferred to tight pants and underwear underneath a
thick dress. I felt boys were free and I was not. And so I started hanging out
with them, the scraggy ones. They talked about girls a lot; when girls fought,
they chatted about how one girl tore the dress of another and how her unripe
mangoes stood in great delight. The boys were always enraptured in every girl
fight. My chest was flat, so I guess they did not notice that I had the ability
to fascinate them. I was grateful for the distraction though because I did not
want my mangoes to grow. So often I slapped my nipples hard when I bathed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>When we entered the University I
started losing my friends to pretty girls. And slowly I became the lonely soul
that sat on the slab beside the Engineering Complex rapping Eminem’s. I could
not make any more friends and so I sought solace in the company of myself. At
night, my arms and my face streaked with tears were my comfort and lullaby. I
hated girls, the girls who took my guys away. But I could not bring myself to
hating me. One evening while I stood at a window in the café peering down at my
friends holding hands with their new friends, I looked at my mangoes. They were
flat. I looked at the girls my friends hung out with.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Their mangoes were ripe
and full. Maybe if mine were like theirs, my friends would not have left me. As
I clenched my fist, a hand, a soft hand met mine. “Come with me. You don’t have
to feel dejected. I have been watching you.” the voice whispered. It
penetrated, soothing and hurting at the same like salt on a fresh wound. Her
eyes roamed my body and I melted behind them. Two questions filled my mind. Did
I feel this way because I had never been held like this or was it because this
particular girl hypnotized me? I followed her. She led me to a room, locked the
door and told me I was better without those guys. She puckered her lips and
placed them on mine, then slowing snaked her tongue around mine. I was still
for a moment. Then like an animal starved of hunger I held her face and
hungrily drank her in. Was it dejection that made me kiss her? Was it because
she was attractive with a full figure and I was the opposite? I do not know. I
just know that I was overwhelmed by a fierce force greater than me. Her hands
roamed the contours of my body. I could do nothing. I could not stop her, even
If I wanted to. I wanted to deny myself the pleasure I felt because I could not
understand why I should like this. A bible story that Father often chanted
resurfaced in my mind. The story of the homosexuals that wanted to sleep with
the angels of God and how God destroyed the city of Sodom and Gomorah because
of their sin. ‘Homosexuality is one of the sins that God hates.” Father says. I
remember when he made us recite the book of Acts…..</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkKpHeiMcVxS_EKvwVLn0f33WFWQdOKYY6c34OSRFer7ErEhRN-AV1B8h_VhyphenhyphenMu1ldxRcLS0gx-M_VIGU6TMFTyg9vgzkcFfJkU5VIHKVUQVKpiAq5ALwb0fYpW2piLblcLuWvwOJqvs/s1600/MANGOES2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkKpHeiMcVxS_EKvwVLn0f33WFWQdOKYY6c34OSRFer7ErEhRN-AV1B8h_VhyphenhyphenMu1ldxRcLS0gx-M_VIGU6TMFTyg9vgzkcFfJkU5VIHKVUQVKpiAq5ALwb0fYpW2piLblcLuWvwOJqvs/s1600/MANGOES2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Recently I went home. Father was
jubilant that the Anti-gay bill had been passed into law. He said “ America is
the modern Sodom and Gomorah. Thank God we are not a part of them.” He looked
at my hand and sneered. I was holding Chimamanda’s Americanah. I held it
tighter. He shook his head and sighed. “It’s a thousand pities that your
heroine with all the books to her credit doesn’t even read the Bible!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I smiled. But it did not reach my
eyes. Everything confused me. Because I could not understand the deep feelings
I have when I am with Princess. I cannot understand the natural thing that
stems from the unnatural. If it is so wrong, why does it feel right? Why do I
even feel it? I will not say that I have not tried to dispossess myself of it.
I have been to the mountains, prayer houses, undergone deliverance, I have even
hooked up with men. Yet the only pleasure that awakens me is the touch of a
woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></i></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzj3DEkMcYmj6KapWwE69mXj2dVCN-H2a8EnuO6i4z4lnAY6CKEfHoAGm_2AKnyCKPDofV2hfof3Ol6vXwBBUbuuaYa56-goghQ_VbLpXznkmuSTdGsgv2Tp4HLkcYVxmst3_mfiTMTEo/s1600/MANGOES1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzj3DEkMcYmj6KapWwE69mXj2dVCN-H2a8EnuO6i4z4lnAY6CKEfHoAGm_2AKnyCKPDofV2hfof3Ol6vXwBBUbuuaYa56-goghQ_VbLpXznkmuSTdGsgv2Tp4HLkcYVxmst3_mfiTMTEo/s1600/MANGOES1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></i></b>
<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;"><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jennifer N. Mbunabo was born in Lagos, Nigeria in 1987. She studied Law at the University of Benin. Her poems and short fiction have been published on </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range0:0" href="http://naijastories.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">naijastories.com</a><span style="color: #373e4d;">, </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range1:0" href="http://thenewblackmagazine.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">thenewblackmagazine.com</a><span style="color: #373e4d;">, </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range2:0" href="http://allpoetry.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">allpoetry.com</a><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text3:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> , africanwriters.com and </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range3:0" href="http://voicesnet.org/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">voicesnet.org.</a><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She lives in Port Harcourt.</span></i></b></div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-22356279710397216462015-01-09T22:47:00.000-08:002015-01-09T22:47:03.145-08:00SLAVES WITH NEW NAMES -BY VICTOR EMMANUEL (C) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">SLAVES WITH NEW NAMES -BY VICTOR EMMANUEL (C) 2015<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4RHB45Q_ayyzIxxabshhtLFekkuHX_1RW8h1nidS_pbaaLuUXU_6vWuIA8AWHTj2_W04_shp-QNUx5OP8WrB2nWDkuMSt5ZtUYGeYmvv6J7LrvMbU4J7py9aODlj64lnWVocB1iA_IA/s1600/SLAVES1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4RHB45Q_ayyzIxxabshhtLFekkuHX_1RW8h1nidS_pbaaLuUXU_6vWuIA8AWHTj2_W04_shp-QNUx5OP8WrB2nWDkuMSt5ZtUYGeYmvv6J7LrvMbU4J7py9aODlj64lnWVocB1iA_IA/s1600/SLAVES1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wale
walks into the spacious lobby that accommodates a receptionist table, several
rows of wooden benches and a retinue of portraits of former government
functionaries who had superintended over the department of works and public utilities.
The picture of the current director general looked down at him from the wall
behind the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
time is 7:45 a.m and he has in his hands a note from his uncle in Lagos for his
childhood friend and classmate of many years, the director. It said something
about finding a placement for the young nephew who had finished university
studies and had been at home for the last two years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dressed
in his best Sunday wear he had arrived early enough to impress his would-be
benefactor. </span></div>
<a name='more'></a>The empty seat behind the desk however informs him that he had
arrived too early. A couple of middle aged women sweeping the lobby and an
older man who ran a piece of rag over the surfaces of benches at that time of
the day reiterates his suspicion.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
trio, all dressed in deep blue coveralls with a big white inscription ‘janitor’
on the back, go about their cleaning duties with no sense of hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A
handful of the members of staff arrive and quickly pullout their cards from
handbags and pockets which they don as they queue up at the receptionist’s
table to sign the time book. The big clock on the adjourning wall says 8:10
a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
officers rush past Wale through the corridor leading to several offices and
disappear behind some of the designation of the occupants behind them. More
workers arrive in trickles. A young lady, dressed in a cream-coloured, tight
fitting suit arrives and takes the seat behind the receptionist desk. She
exchanges pleasantries with the few latecomers who converge around her table to
append their names on the attendance register.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Wale
approaches her and introduces himself and his mission, in the middle of her
make up session. With a dour expression that shows she </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">couldn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> care more about
him or his matter, she points him to the nearest bench.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Wait
for <i>oga</i> director.” It was more of an
order.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">From
where he sits, Wale easily views the thoroughfare to the offices and can now
read the titles on the respective doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
closest one reads ‘general office’. The next reads ‘accountants’. The door
opposite to the first reads ‘junior officers-grade level 4-6’. The next has a
bold inscription ‘junior officers- grade level 7-9’. Further down the corridor there
is another door with ‘senior officers- grade level 10-13’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There
is a flurry of activities as people loitering in the hallway move up and down
hurriedly. The atmosphere suddenly seems charged. A pot-bellied man runs into
the lobby and screams “Director has come! Director has come!” The words are
echoed along the hall and in the several offices. An air of business falls upon
the place as a dark, bulky, bald headed man strolls into the secretariat with a
retinue of aides. Wale could count four men, all dressed in starched brocade
materials of different shades of brown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“O
boy, director has come,” Miss Receptionist informs Wale in a whisper as if he
needed any telling. She turns in time to throw a “Good morning, <i>Sah</i>!” at the receding figure of her boss
who seems to want make it into his office at the far end of the corridor before
the minute hand of the wall clock hits 8:45 a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“O
boy, you are lucky <i>Oga</i> director has
come in early today. If not, you would have waited like forever.” Miss
Receptionist says. “You still have to wait small for him to settle down before
I send you in to meet with his personal secretary who will receive your
letter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wale
offers his thanks and murmurs a prayer to his god to favour him. This sure was
a good sign that his mission would be successful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For
the next fifteen minutes or so, he watches as people go about carrying files
from one room to the other, pausing along the corridors to exchange small
gossips and generally carrying on with the chores of civil service. He could
hear sounds of type writers emanating from the offices as if it was 1980.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He
turns to notice that the benches have all been occupied with all sorts of
people obviously here to lay a complaint, seek redress or solicit for
assistance from a government agency whose existence was more imagined than
experienced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A
few impatient arrivals encircle Miss Receptionist and try to force their
appointments through. She in turn proves to be well made for the office of a gate
keeper as she talks down the rowdy horde into acquiescence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">“All
of you go and seat down or else I </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">wouldn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> allow any body to go in. First come,
first served.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She
stands up and struts down the aisle and disappears behind one of the doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">The
subdued crowd resumes its babbling as everyone moves away from the table to
find a space on the now fully occupied benches. There is general empathy for
those standing as people shift to accommodate them. Wale swallows his anger as
he is asked to shift by a buxom woman whose heavy perfume and heavier make up
was intended to break protocol in the world of randy men. These people
certainly </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">didn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> merit empathy since they had not respected the feelings of the
early birds, he reasoned. Not wanting to encourage any drama between himself
and Jezebel, he makes room for her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“O
boy, come.” Miss Reception appears from nowhere and beckons to him. “Follow
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wale gladly forfeits his seat for
another occupant who rushes to take up his space on the bench as he follows her
lead towards the director general’s office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9hsZzgpWkGu7Qv7uJzT2GHjGLDHfyZMAL41kjhmYebxMcZzLuByOg4lH4RY7o8PEnv3cYYtglZP-k_EljoiWHSDPXvcfQgNmy-fvk-XBqyIoOkFolGF6DI3y9G106GjssqHponkZKF4/s1600/SLAVES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9hsZzgpWkGu7Qv7uJzT2GHjGLDHfyZMAL41kjhmYebxMcZzLuByOg4lH4RY7o8PEnv3cYYtglZP-k_EljoiWHSDPXvcfQgNmy-fvk-XBqyIoOkFolGF6DI3y9G106GjssqHponkZKF4/s1600/SLAVES.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-86168465479782539632015-01-05T12:33:00.002-08:002015-01-05T22:33:41.626-08:00THE NEW SOUL- BY JENNIFER N. MBUNABO (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b>THE NEW SOUL- BY JENNIFER N. MBUNABO (c) 2015</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkj_cKvutuyI96Tdd4oxnCHXPuKhx0zwE0EDn2729TYYyhjvtXMsUR5kPgghPxqYBdnRxfYvgaTTvokfESYazz1DDEBr0V2ud7fCHuAIGyKWspYL1uwWTUdpBxlAd5LElz5RJ705zVi_E/s1600/NEW+SOUL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkj_cKvutuyI96Tdd4oxnCHXPuKhx0zwE0EDn2729TYYyhjvtXMsUR5kPgghPxqYBdnRxfYvgaTTvokfESYazz1DDEBr0V2ud7fCHuAIGyKWspYL1uwWTUdpBxlAd5LElz5RJ705zVi_E/s1600/NEW+SOUL.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When the service was over, Angela
asked me how I enjoyed it, I told her of my newest revelation about the church
being the church for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yes, Brother Joe, there are
churches and there are churches! This is where the anointing is.’ I did not
understand all she meant. But what I was certain about was that I wanted the
anointing to be on my head so that Angela and I could share the word together
and locked in each other’s arms go to the school hostels evangelizing for the Lord.
Her hands brushed mine and just then Pastor Ben came towards us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Is this the new soul won to
Christ?’He asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yes’ Angela giggled. ‘His soul is
on fire, burning for the Lord.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I nodded to my burning desire for
her. Pastor Ben shook my hands feebly and after a light hug from Angela they
both left after insisting I come for the week day service at the sports
complex. I nodded my head grumpily and assured her I was going to come. </span></div>
<a name='more'></a>I
looked forward to every meeting with Angela. She had introduced me to everyone
in her cell group and I was later assigned to work with her. Day by day we
would enter the hostel to preach, I would stand afar off and she would pull me
and I would refuse to go. In the buses I would chorus ‘amen’ and ‘hallelujah’
whenever she finished preaching. I guess this became a cause for concern to
her- the fact that I appeared guilty of being a sinner unable to forgive myself
and preach. I followed her to a leadership meeting on Tuesday evening at the Hall
2 common room. And Pastor Ben’s words strung my ear again. He spoke quietly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘The bible says that you are a new
creature in Christ, old things have passed away and behold all things have
become new.’ Angela touched my lap in that reassuring manner. I was distracted.
Most of the time I felt she had feelings or love for me, aside the brotherly
love she clings to, especially with the way she gives me that penetrating look
and that unholy hug pressing the contours of her body on me. I shook myself
back to reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘How can you be a Christian and you
are scared of casting out demons?’He stopped and searching our faces. He paused,
walked around and swung his hand into his pocket, brought out a white
handkerchief and wiped the sweat that had glistened to his forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It worried me that she did not
revere me like Pastor Ben, she always rattled on about how Pastor Ben laid hands
on the sick and they recovered. She also reminded me of an incident in the
female hostel. She said a mad man had entered the hostel and all the girls were
screaming and nobody could touch the man, but that a senior, female pastor sent
for pastor Ben and when he came he just as little as lifted a finger at the mad
man, murmuring inaudible words which I believe to be speaking in tongues and
the mad man fell on the floor sobbing. That was when the Porters carried him
out. Pastor Ben’s fame grew from that very day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I noticed her eyes sparkled whenever she spoke
of him and I wondered if her eyes dwindled away when she mentioned me. I
purposed in my heart that I would make her proud of me. I was going to outdo Pastor
Ben. And for the first time since I started her church I knelt down in my room
and said a real prayer. I prayed for an opportunity so that I would manifest
that I have the mind of Christ. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As serendipity would have it, the
moment came that very night. I was sitting there when I heard shouts and
screams. My bosom friend Daniel ran towards me shrieking in laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He pointed to the roof of Hall one
female hostel, which was behind, on my extreme left. I looked and truly there
was a figure with arms outstretched. I ran to the hostel, there was a crowd. A slim
girl on a bra and pant was laughing hysterically and saying something about
dying. I inquired about what happened and was told that she was reading in the
reading room and all of a sudden started laughing and taking off her clothes. I
asked if anybody had gone up to help her. They said some guys tried but she
overpowered them, but that they had sent for a certain pastor that specialized
in the cases of mad people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What! Not again, not again, not
Pastor Ben, I won’t allow him to take this chance away from me. Who knows this
may be the only chance I got. I quickly pushed through the crowd and entered
the hostel. I jumped over a fleet of stairs and over the flyover. I was soon on
the rooftop beside the mad girl. I looked at her body, she had a round tempting
backside and I remembered Omotola in Nollywood. I shook my head; I couldn’t be
lusting after a girl I wanted to cast out demons from. I remembered the words
of Pastor David, ‘The righteous are as bold as a lion!’’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yes I am righteous, as a believer
and also bold. I started to rehearse and chant. I was fully charged now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I heard some footsteps, I heard the
crowd cheering and I was happy. <i>Yes the
crowd is cheering me on; they know I am the man. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The footsteps persisted and I
turned, only to see Pastor Ben. No way, I couldn’t allow him to take my glory. So
I rushed forward. I heard his footsteps stop. I was glad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This is my show, <i>come on baby</i>. The mad girl charged and
whirled around so fast to face me, her breasts bounced at her turn. I quickly
focused my attention on her face. Her eyes blazed with fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Leave me alone!’ She seemed to
say, her voice was husky, more like five men were speaking through her at the
same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I command you in the name of our
lord to get out of her, in Jesus name’ I said. She laughed. And I summoned
courage to say it again, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then she said, ‘Paul I know, Peter
I know, Pastor Ben I know, but who are you?’
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I recollected myself, I felt
a loud bang on my face and I dropped to the floor, I saw stars. She proceeded
towards me. I crawled back in retreat. My eyes had shrunk back inside and I was
gravely afraid. This mad girl may kill me. She brought out her cat claws. I
shut my eyes and suddenly I heard that familiar voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I command you to leave now, you
mammon spirit!’ It was Pastor Ben’s voice and immediately to my surprise this
mad girl fell face flat to the floor and did not move. Pastor Ben slid past me
and winked. Did he just wink at me? Did he just say mammon spirit? This did not
look like the work of mammon or money. It looked like the work of Pastor Ben. I
quickly ran out of the hostel amid the sympathy I received. I went to my room
and took out the olive oil that was stashed away, given to me by my uncle. He
called it the devil’s destroyer. I opened it, downed some drops and rubbed my
swollen cheek. And I hoped it destroyed whatever spirit that had been imbued in
me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text0:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jennifer N. Mbunabo was born in Lagos, Nigeria in 1987. She studied Law at the University of Benin. Her poems and short fiction have been published on </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range0:0" href="http://naijastories.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">naijastories.com</a><span style="color: #373e4d;">, </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range1:0" href="http://thenewblackmagazine.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">thenewblackmagazine.com</a><span style="color: #373e4d;">, </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range2:0" href="http://allpoetry.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">allpoetry.com</a><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$text3:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> , africanwriters.com and </span><a data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$range3:0" href="http://voicesnet.org/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">voicesnet.org.</a><span data-reactid=".49.$mid=11420511044326=269f5b85b31ed8f8c49.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She lives in Port Harcourt.</span></i></b></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-44123927919093660852015-01-05T12:13:00.000-08:002015-04-23T23:50:40.392-07:00MONDAY MORNING -BY VICTOR IDEM (c) 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><b>MONDAY MORNING -BY
VICTOR IDEM (c) 2015</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkQwW9Wmpe6O3hppGIwntjYcZ6Dq71yB8iexlpSERPaKmgEhJR1TTd_ZJTKRnHhzTBjMLmwdpeC1FtJQ1qWnnnnBIpT6RYdKNjl7JCFq-_Iz0tzg4qEr3aDwsRUYQrCP01gb0EnF9uh4/s1600/lagos+nigeria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkQwW9Wmpe6O3hppGIwntjYcZ6Dq71yB8iexlpSERPaKmgEhJR1TTd_ZJTKRnHhzTBjMLmwdpeC1FtJQ1qWnnnnBIpT6RYdKNjl7JCFq-_Iz0tzg4qEr3aDwsRUYQrCP01gb0EnF9uh4/s1600/lagos+nigeria.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">It is Monday morning
where I live. The time is 6:30 a.m and the city is long gone on its journey of
the day. I have only just woken up to catch up with it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">From my bed I can
hear the rush of the traffic some distance away as humanity jumps into the fray
of everyday living, everyday hustling for that daily bread. Horns of cars,
trucks, tricycles and commercial motorbikes fill the air with their impatient
shrills as they hurry to nowhere and everywhere all at once.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Competing for
space in the growing cacophony are the shouts of bus conductors, traffic
wardens, old and young hawkers of sundry wares, street urchins warming up for
another day of begging and stealing, commuters haggling with touts at the
ubiquitous bus stops, sirens of corrupt dignitaries blaring as they slice
through the building gridlock of vehicles conveying the lifeblood of the city,
the people.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a>I can imagine
the forlorn faces of a potpourri of bankers, civil servants, lawyers, job
seekers, con artists and their likes all seated, sandwiched in the danfo buses
heading into the heart of the metropolis, all hoping that this new day will
bring them closer to their lifetime dreams of happiness, contentment and well-being Like minions acting out written scripts by an unseen hand, they
offload unto the tarred streets of the city centre and flow into the fast
moving crowd, mixing with the multitude and ferrying away into the crevices of
offices, shops, restaurants, boutiques, salons and street corners.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">As the sun
climbs up to midday, anticipation swells as everyone pushes for the
breakthrough that will ease the stress of the work week; frantic phone calls
are made, lengthy e-mails with attached proposals are sent, impromptu business
appointments are set up, obnoxious staff meetings with no agenda are held.
Everything is done with eyes on the clock, awaiting lunch hour break.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">On the streets
there is no let up either. Traders of all sorts of commodities, new and fairly
used, original and made-in-China, designer brands or customized to fit a lean
purse, relish in their artistry to coax, bargain and take a sale or two.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf1ZR_KjfAD63CYk2H9Sqa7bZzBuL7_3tHJji2yVf_P5Lj5R0igFjAeRnIaj6aFksvWfPkfVS15HNhJOai3nC50qv8o32PBxV2g7zMpY_MUsCMlve3Dm804uCN0UThBmTNNVucqba4NA/s1600/lagos+nigeria3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf1ZR_KjfAD63CYk2H9Sqa7bZzBuL7_3tHJji2yVf_P5Lj5R0igFjAeRnIaj6aFksvWfPkfVS15HNhJOai3nC50qv8o32PBxV2g7zMpY_MUsCMlve3Dm804uCN0UThBmTNNVucqba4NA/s1600/lagos+nigeria3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">The street
marshals, also known as ‘area boys’ approach slow moving pedestrians or mesmerized
JJCs-Johnny Just Come- and try to coerce them to part with some money for some
unsolicited service advertised or for just happening to be in their territory.
Everyone around the scene is too much in a hurry to take notice of the violent
taunts of human predators as they lay siege on the unschooled, uninitiated and
unsuspecting everyday people equally trying to make a living within the walls
of our urban jungle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Stepping out of
my home for the office, from my shell where I take refuge from the daily grinds
of city dwelling, I throw myself into the vortex of what we call civilization-
a never ending roller coaster pursuit of purpose and fulfillment, of joy and
peace of mind, of life’s abundant blessings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">It is Monday morning
in the city I live as it is in the many cities across the country, across the
motherland.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblw3MDBBiHVnmuVS4r4mR_KUUPft8sxjzG2T74Ji4wD5zvVEG2ZVvrBT483QyV2Zt785TGHx-cYPHDMcZ58AZaHdcTAZQ5Bj4dSOFNfAVk8TvXId7BH87FpW0S8l3RDPKzdl72lVTuXA/s1600/lagos+nigeria1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblw3MDBBiHVnmuVS4r4mR_KUUPft8sxjzG2T74Ji4wD5zvVEG2ZVvrBT483QyV2Zt785TGHx-cYPHDMcZ58AZaHdcTAZQ5Bj4dSOFNfAVk8TvXId7BH87FpW0S8l3RDPKzdl72lVTuXA/s1600/lagos+nigeria1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-91872771879464241552015-01-03T01:47:00.001-08:002015-02-01T07:15:31.173-08:00THE 2015 AFRICAN STORY TELLERS MONTHLY 100-WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEzuY6_cdgGn9aqgBlUAKqrYPKnGqS5-TDayrqKmrdQ-qLLxUZNZPqLE-eDrEbkrDPAGsmFEqFs_RTfkfgUmzb_pflpk4aGbbiEYxx-IWVR67iIF4aZ09WB9rCOe8MFQdmviSvxFUF9w/s1600/100+notes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEzuY6_cdgGn9aqgBlUAKqrYPKnGqS5-TDayrqKmrdQ-qLLxUZNZPqLE-eDrEbkrDPAGsmFEqFs_RTfkfgUmzb_pflpk4aGbbiEYxx-IWVR67iIF4aZ09WB9rCOe8MFQdmviSvxFUF9w/s1600/100+notes.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">HAPPY NEW MONTH, GREAT STORY TELLERS!</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">We would like to thank all those who entered for our January, 2015 edition of 100 WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION which officially closed by 12.00 midnight on 31 January, 2015.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">We had sixteen entries fro</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">m the following participants, namely;<br /><br />1. Orphan and the Monster- By Asuquo Bassey 2. The Blotted Pawpaw ( A story without verb)- By Mutiu Olawuyi 3. Platter of Gold- By Ogunjimi Lizzie Ayomikun<br />4. Polygamy wahala- By Emeke Nwaoboli<br />5. Her shrouded shame- By Remilekun Onifade<br />6. Dining with the devil- By Ogunjimi Lizzie Ayomikun<br />7. Incest- By McDonald Ibe Onyema<br />8.The Strange Ring- By Asuquo Bassey<br />9. The Clapping Clock- By Iniobong Umana<br />10. Tides of Action- By Mohammed Afrah .J<br />11. Stones are not good for glasses- By Ogbole Agala<br />12. The Potency of an Ancestral God- By Emeke Nwaoboli<br />13.Many Bloody Hands- By Ogbole Agala<br />14. A Hungry Man is an Angry Man- By Obinna Ejide<br />15. War- By Hannah Onoguwe<br />16. Saved by a Witch- By Ukeme Rex Ekpenyong<br /><br />All entries made interesting read and we intend to engage every one of the participants in future literary projects of this body as ambassadors and assessors.<br /><br />We will be announcing the winner of the prize money of N10,000.00 (Ten Thousand Naira Only) by 2nd February as open up invitation for our February edition of our 100 WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION.<br /><br />Please stay tuned to this page and CONGRATULATIONS in advance to the maiden edition our 100 WORD SHORT STORY COMPETITION.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Signed: Management<br />African STORY Tellers (c) 2015</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7g18H0lGfOca30MBnlDORgji_WUq1BFYSjICXvQs3_9wAmEmYXasXAtpvE9P9BNDshbC_yAvhMm5Rg-OI2WFVvLqd8JYcrBqcpgIcqE-dafMH0Xr6qmswfsroibKrm2pH3lbvfDIZUXU/s1600/100+notes1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7g18H0lGfOca30MBnlDORgji_WUq1BFYSjICXvQs3_9wAmEmYXasXAtpvE9P9BNDshbC_yAvhMm5Rg-OI2WFVvLqd8JYcrBqcpgIcqE-dafMH0Xr6qmswfsroibKrm2pH3lbvfDIZUXU/s1600/100+notes1.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-20702226690773241722014-12-14T00:34:00.001-08:002015-04-23T23:52:54.588-07:00NEIGHBORHOOD CINDERELLA BY DARAMOLA KUTI (C) 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>NEIGHBORHOOD CINDERELLA BY DARAMOLA KUTI (C) 2014</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7B3BgWS0o8snJvR3oO_9lfeC94C61zv87SBynfmrR3TC35uYLA74Is2YMBkOZ3lDXK51rXt_pu2k-Jnzm1UKTRpDl_HNdSTiw7t6fb4uGoTDrmBX7CWA1TXEOjJtQcuxwgGbT0IjsYc/s1600/CINDERELLA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7B3BgWS0o8snJvR3oO_9lfeC94C61zv87SBynfmrR3TC35uYLA74Is2YMBkOZ3lDXK51rXt_pu2k-Jnzm1UKTRpDl_HNdSTiw7t6fb4uGoTDrmBX7CWA1TXEOjJtQcuxwgGbT0IjsYc/s1600/CINDERELLA.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Every guy that was a guy in our
neighbourhood called her Cinderella and we all knew why.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Not for her beauty although her
beauty was something to behold.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Not for her pedigree either. We
all knew she came from the same stock as her mother. Nobody knew her father.
She didn’t either.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
She was the first girl most boys
in our part of town had their first sexual encounter with. She was the first
girl that came to mind once you had a hard-on and didn't want the stress of
pleading with your girlfriend to come over till day break. She was the first
girl randy fellows called when they needed a quickie to sate their lusts rather
than masturbate with soap or Vaseline or whatever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>She had first been nicknamed
‘snow white’ when the story made the rounds that a group of seven classmates
had paid to enlist her for a group therapy. She had caught on the gist and made
trouble with anyone who much as dared call her that name to her face.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Everyone knew she had lost her
womb from the series of abortions she had undertaken, week in, week out. That,
or the myriads of pills she had swallowed must have put paid to any possibility
of her ever conceiving, we all asserted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Then one morning, Cinderella left
our neighbourhood. The public toilet left town and all the men felt castrated,
impotent. Any guy that was a guy knew his libido would put him in jeopardy
because the one person that could quench his fire at a single request was nowhere
to be found.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Lovers settled their quarrels.
Husbands ran home to appease the wives. Boy virgins took on crash courses on
how to woo a girl. Young girls drew up long lists for the suckers who pawned
for their behinds. Love took on a new meaning. Soon after, everyone forgot
about Cinderella.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But just as she had disappeared,
she came back. Cinderella came back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Cinderella came back with twice
her beauty, her son and her Prince Charming, a Captain or a Colonel, no one
could tell, but a fine officer and a gentleman. They came in a military vehicle
with tinted glasses and a small flag on the bonnet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
They stopped in front of
Cinderella’s house where her mother still lived and a military orderly opened
the back door to let out Prince Charming, uniform and all. He had the gait of
royalty, a man of authority. The orderly hurried to the other side to let out mother
and child.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There is a shout of elation as mother
and daughter reunite. More shouts as Prince Charming and baby are introduced as
family. They all go inside and word soon makes the round that the unexpected
has happened. Cinderella has made a happy ending to a wanton lifestyle.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Cinderella finally left our
neighbourhood forever but every guy that was a guy thereafter desired to be a
Prince Charming in an army fatigue with an orderly and a military vehicle, just
like Cinderella’s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiALehfSTvaHWT32GE2WorzXP1RbjVrALZ7u6Z7nXzzg8XXnu9bct_s6bwWzP_-t-yWJnfoww4kKqG627IzyAsBB7QLbbWqkaQZjw0mGgUt3cD4OsSicOa2LDCe3tiJTPax42VwnveXExU/s1600/ARMY2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiALehfSTvaHWT32GE2WorzXP1RbjVrALZ7u6Z7nXzzg8XXnu9bct_s6bwWzP_-t-yWJnfoww4kKqG627IzyAsBB7QLbbWqkaQZjw0mGgUt3cD4OsSicOa2LDCe3tiJTPax42VwnveXExU/s1600/ARMY2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-37089501708921418692014-12-14T00:16:00.001-08:002015-04-23T23:54:01.073-07:00FAMILY FIRST BY VICTOR EMMANUEL (C) 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>FAMILY FIRST BY VICTOR EMMANUEL (C) 2014<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqwkSMJoFqyT-uKTI71GWOgkGYufZPu3s7W5fb3djttPO8tcFBiY6Ndqe4nD20g8q2XeRcVKwHm-keSHz5sOF_wbP-CnVGZy04MC1wPs-zJv4u6VetEe-tgwjLxhNhAAr9Ylec83Bois/s1600/guns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqwkSMJoFqyT-uKTI71GWOgkGYufZPu3s7W5fb3djttPO8tcFBiY6Ndqe4nD20g8q2XeRcVKwHm-keSHz5sOF_wbP-CnVGZy04MC1wPs-zJv4u6VetEe-tgwjLxhNhAAr9Ylec83Bois/s1600/guns.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The three of us sat around one of
the plantain stalks, smoking cigarettes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It had been seven years since
Father died, since when Uncke Etido poisoned him whilst they drank the local
gin- <i>kai kai</i>- together as a sign of
truce over the long drawn tussle for the family land.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One of three things killed a man
in my village; land, women or money. Father was killed because a disputed piece
of land his own father had inherited from his father had been encroached upon by
his elder brother, Etido.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I was sixteen years of age, my
two older brothers, nineteen and twenty one years’ respectively, when Father
came back home late that night and vomited blood on the dining table as he ate
his last supper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>We had grieved with the rest of
the extended family, Uncle Etido playing the part of the bereaved brother. He
had been magnanimous enough to sponsor the burial and lay Father to rest four
months later.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My two brothers had left the
village soon after but only after we had all sworn to make sure we took an eye
for an eye, a life for a life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Now we were gathered once more,
scions of a murdered man whose blood cried out for revenge. We were ready to
pay Uncle his due, in his own coin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My eldest brother unwrapped the
black piece of cloth on his lap to reveal an ‘awka’ made pistol, The three
cartridges lay in the cradle beside the wooden handle of the gun, resting on
the material which now lay spread between his thighs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My other brother brought out two
black hooded sweaters from the knapsack propped up beside his legs. He threw
one at me and quickly donned the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A gun. Two hoods. Three
cartridges. The plot was ready. In a few hours, Uncle Etido will be dead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Udim dragged the last of his
cigarette and threw the stub into the bush. He took a minute to load the three
rounder and check the safety latch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Where can we find him at this
hour?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I knew Uncle Etido’s itinerary. I
knew everywhere in the village. I knew where to find him drinking and boasting
and laughing like he owned the world. I told them where he would be sitting,
what he would be drinking, who would be drinking with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My brother handed me the
revolver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Good. I will join him on his
table and try to slip the poison into his drink. If that fails, make sure you
get him when he gets up to piss. Etim, you be on the lookout!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
He nods. I nod. We shake hands
and share hugs.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There is nothing like family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-18992374132212315592014-12-01T22:52:00.000-08:002014-12-01T22:59:06.162-08:00SUGARCANE SWEET- By Daramola Kuti (c) 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>SUGARCANE SWEET- By Daramola Kuti (c) 2014</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKb6zmQKB1NDJaH2mivdeuQWmCS3V-CO1z-BIiKCnGR9Q0iCxyDSCZFm91MZx0RLHD6yiu62Nfh4_eEAJIf42ThzkjgFWioWGp8pYInDOH6AGjfQtdHtFB2L7w3Y4Rg2GMK64Dv1xByE/s1600/RED+LIGHT+DISTRICT+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKb6zmQKB1NDJaH2mivdeuQWmCS3V-CO1z-BIiKCnGR9Q0iCxyDSCZFm91MZx0RLHD6yiu62Nfh4_eEAJIf42ThzkjgFWioWGp8pYInDOH6AGjfQtdHtFB2L7w3Y4Rg2GMK64Dv1xByE/s1600/RED+LIGHT+DISTRICT+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You don’t have a girlfriend?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Etuk’s face looked like he had
just swallowed a life bull frog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I stared at the group of four
teenagers I called friends and just shrugged. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“So?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I told you fellows. This guy is
a homo!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Mind what you say, Odey,” I was
quick to warn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In my neighbourhood being gay was
worse than being a fresher.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“So why don’t you have a
girlfriend? Have you have not slept with a girl before?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I had shrugged again. What was I
to say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Jesus Christ! You have never
fucked before? So, you are a virgin....a bloody fresher?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a>“What is wrong with that? We didn’t
come to school to indulge in sex. There is enough time when we get into the
university.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You really don’t know what you
are missing, Mr. ‘Fresh’. As a senior student you get laid for free now. When
you become a campus guy, you will have to spend a lot to get it, I swear,”
Etim, our ring leader said as we all arose at the sound of the school bell
signalling the end of break time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
After classes, Etim and I walked
back home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Are you afraid of women?” It was
a sincere question from a friend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Not really. It is just that I
haven’t had the chance.” It was a sincere answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Well then my friend, tonight
will be your lucky night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“How?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“This evening I will take you to
a place where they make men out of boys like you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My curiosity was rather
heightened whilst we walked through a street with a colony of low life bars and
brothels as dusk set in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I had heard tales about red light
districts. I was in one; the smell of cheap booze, sweaty flesh and cigarette
smoke made me both excited and afraid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We walked into one of the dingy
bars and took our seats. Two half clad ‘ladies’ joined our table uninvited.
Their heavy make ups and sticks of cigarettes complemented their outfits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The one closer to Etim dragged
her seat closer to him and thrust her voluptuous breasts into his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Boyfriend, long time no see. Buy
your girlfriend beer now...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Etim grabbed one of her mammary
glands and pressed it with the dexterity of a baker kneading dough. He assured her that he had enough to pay for
a few bottles and some personalized service for both of us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Pointing to me, he whispered to
his love interest that I was a fresher and as such needed to be given an
unforgettable experience by her colleague.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“No protest, boyfriend. My friend
is soft and sweet like sugarcane. When your friend tastes her, he will come
back for more.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The trio had had a good laugh at
me just as our drinks arrived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We were walking back home after
an hour or so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“So tell me, how did it go? Did
she treat you well?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Was her thing as sweet as my
friend had said?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I nodded again.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My first experience as a man had
been sugarcane sweet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IJHf59D6n9g51plcYpIcNajgr-ZhgEsmtDTwVbUi2kbqGptAfV2fGhyphenhyphen7PWtA5rSJyxc_gR90XHFXS_j3jSlXR8H2juRn7iSIwANCOcoq_ZH7yE6dys22Oe7SGuZjOwyEJXY-VeZ-iok/s1600/RED+LIGHT+DISTRICT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IJHf59D6n9g51plcYpIcNajgr-ZhgEsmtDTwVbUi2kbqGptAfV2fGhyphenhyphen7PWtA5rSJyxc_gR90XHFXS_j3jSlXR8H2juRn7iSIwANCOcoq_ZH7yE6dys22Oe7SGuZjOwyEJXY-VeZ-iok/s1600/RED+LIGHT+DISTRICT.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4651051063033612266.post-55380015783840219892014-11-23T02:19:00.002-08:002014-11-24T08:10:44.006-08:00THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS By VICTOR EMMANUEL (c) 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS By Victor Emmanuel (c) 2014</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7tX_-eim2ADGpGNmCb-cntb_gPK0yOOqmK3yDOwXeFYhAQqIthu1GgTMgvYKKA3QK261iWdfHdyr1OGXK2PC2j8vyVk0HA63fpBQDIgGgc-8Rn0tQ-DjxHPwzOZmsVAgku98-4ft8OU/s1600/goats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7tX_-eim2ADGpGNmCb-cntb_gPK0yOOqmK3yDOwXeFYhAQqIthu1GgTMgvYKKA3QK261iWdfHdyr1OGXK2PC2j8vyVk0HA63fpBQDIgGgc-8Rn0tQ-DjxHPwzOZmsVAgku98-4ft8OU/s1600/goats.jpg" height="193" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The moonlight that shone the
night before Christmas day over the small town of Abak added to the jamboree
spirit of the season. All over town children ran up and down in jubilation as
fireworks were displayed and carols were rendered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At the house of the Ekanems’
there was a flurry of activities in the kitchen and at the backyard as the
madam of the house supervised her three children and extra hands from a couple
of family relatives, in the preparation of the meals which were to be used in
entertaining guests and well wishers the next day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The smoke that rose from the
heathen stove, which a big pot of rice sitting on it, permeated the slightly
chilled air. Even then one of the girls in the house was fanning the dying
embers to resuscitate the fire. Some distance away tied to a stake, was a big
black he-goat lying on the ground, a sad countenance on its face. Not too far
off were two female goats, one of them with her male kid, all wearing forlorn
faces as they stared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Mama,” bleated the little goat
as it nudged the mother’s head with its little horns, “why are you all gloomy
when the atmosphere calls for rejoicing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Pss, shut up, little one!” cried
Mama. Nene, her mate who had been listening let out a cough, before continuing
to chew her cud in silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“But Mama, I have never seen
Papa, you or Mma Nene in such unhappy mood as tonight. It is as though someone
died.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a>“Little one, use your eyes! Can’t
you see your Papa is wearing the accursed rope tied to a stake?” Nene’s whisper
couldn’t hide her irritation at the kid’s persistence. “Don’t you know what
that means?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It took the deep throated bleat
of the bull goat to keep the trio silent. A few minutes passed by before Mama
whispered to her son to draw closer so she could talk to him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You see my little one...,” she
paused to check if her voice had been carried over to Papa’s ears. It had not,
so she continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
They were several festivals,
which their human masters had every year, which usually called ‘feasting’. Such
occasions normally signalled bad news in the animal kingdom as many beasts were
slaughtered and their flesh used for entertainment. Tomorrow was one of those
days and Papa was to be sacrificed, judging from the thick twine that hung on
his neck securing him firmly to the stake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“But Mama, how could our masters
be so cruel?” The kid asked, a tear cascading down each cheek.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I thought they
loved us. Then why do they feed us only to eat us?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_H82hcB6LSwQYtb0AYZvCnteImzfdw2vaREvyyiqA3mQ28k24_RTQAo9upHa0p98Dw770ozxIFVzfXnDXlb3NA4Qdjrbyf8_vKxekWJuLA7SIfxnu7gujCHk3QEwNZdoRM8tke7OYJ0/s1600/goats+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_H82hcB6LSwQYtb0AYZvCnteImzfdw2vaREvyyiqA3mQ28k24_RTQAo9upHa0p98Dw770ozxIFVzfXnDXlb3NA4Qdjrbyf8_vKxekWJuLA7SIfxnu7gujCHk3QEwNZdoRM8tke7OYJ0/s1600/goats+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Well child, I will tell you a
story as I was told by my grandmother,” answered Mama.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Man and beast, especially cattle,
had been close friends in early times after the gods created all things. Back
then men had horns, hooves and even walked on all four limbs just like other
creatures feeding only on plants, fruits and grains.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Now there was a particular tree
the gods had made which no mortal knew whose fruit when eaten had the power to
make beasts walk up straight and whose leaves when eaten increased a creature’s
intelligence. According to the tale, a creature’s intelligence grew
proportionally to how well the leaves were chewed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
All the herbivores had entered a
pact that whichever of them discovered the mysterious tree of wisdom and vigour
should inform all the others so that they all could have the powers to overcome
their adversaries, the carnivores. Man, who had been a glutton and a cunning
fellow was lucky to discover the tree.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Little did we suspect that man
would renege on the pact. He became wiser than all creatures and could stand on
his hind legs,” Mama continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Ever since then he has been
using the trick of promising to reveal that tree to us only if we continue to
stay with him and agree to be used as sacrificial animals.” Nene, who had been
eavesdropping blurted in anger.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Mama, why can’t we run away?”
Little goat had started sobbing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It was no use, Mama answered. Man
had become so wise that he had different means and devices of capturing
runaways. Besides, that alternative was worse since their old enemies the wild
carnivores were always lurking around to devour them. At least their human
masters were more humane, by taking care of their daily needs and giving them a
swift, though untimely, death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Just then two young men entered
the yard amidst cheers from the other members of the house who followed behind in
jubilation. Each of them held a machete and a small cutting knife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As they approached the male goat,
the poor animal let out cries of anguish as it struggled to break free from the
rope around its neck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One of the men loosened the end
of the rope around the stake and dragged Papa goat.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
With as much power as it could
muster, the animal struggled bravely but soon gave up, as he was being led
away. Papa goat bleated out a farewell to his loved ones who watched on with
tears in their eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UXUgC7584mcq7SYXBedf6b6dcVRmo26yIU0HOngE63bIWYAs8BnO8Fl9XNiBBF-PmxueDc7Zfo_NmbB27sJGz0VjmClz1owUb5d_V2ZrKK93mQpFmrrRnSXsfeT8wiHw1tX1DQT2GdI/s1600/goats+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UXUgC7584mcq7SYXBedf6b6dcVRmo26yIU0HOngE63bIWYAs8BnO8Fl9XNiBBF-PmxueDc7Zfo_NmbB27sJGz0VjmClz1owUb5d_V2ZrKK93mQpFmrrRnSXsfeT8wiHw1tX1DQT2GdI/s1600/goats+3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Victor Emmanuelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01600753529115578806noreply@blogger.com2