The newspaper vendor’s hoot came to a halt. His lean frame
bent forward, peered and scurried away. The ice-cream cyclist swerved to the
other side of the road, bumped into a waste bin. The old beggar standing
nearby hobbled towards the lamp-post. Honks. Clenched fists peeped out of a
braking Camry at the flustered cyclist followed by a resounding “God punish
you”. A swarm of startled faces turned towards the speeding car and then back
at the bicycle-man. He shrugged, adjusted his bike and pointed away. Some
pausing to see the source of his distraction, maybe lunacy.
Nothing else was
more evident than the imposing structure of a 25-storey building; Amex Plaza.
Some ran gazes along the walls of the building, and its rusted metal-work to
its top till their hands visored their eyes. A few looked back at the
ice-cream seller, shook their heads and shifted their feet as more people
pushed their way out of the teeming crowd. He pointed again towards the
building but at something else. An overweight silver trash can. Worn-out
blankets sitting against the grey pavement. Condom packs. Plastic bags. Crisp
dry leaves and broken twigs. A bent, folded Ghana-Must-Go bag. Rustling
polythene bags. Rats, cats or snakes perhaps. It didn’t make sense to those
dressed in suits, whose laptop bags chafed against their buttocks whenever they
moved. They left, at first in twos, then in threes.
I recently entered into a short story competition which ended a
couple of minutes ago (I am posting this 200 minutes after). The competition
had a twist to it. Okay, let me tell you about it. It is a short story contest.
The intention of the organizer was to #endthestory he had initially started.
The story is titled "The Sex life of a Lagos mad woman". Sincerely, I
really can't be bothered if you don't know where Lagos is. Google it. So, as I
was saying, the winning entrant ought to get a Blackberry Playbook (not that I
can't afford it eh-squeeze-me) and might be considered for a publishing contract
(the juicy part) and some other mede-mede (additional benefits).
Anyhow, the rule stated that we should type in Times Roman Font,
blah-blah-blah (the technicalities will bore you) and write a convincing end to
the story that would not be more than 500 words. So, I wrote something that I
felt would do justice to #endthestory. You can read it here "entry 17".
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Indeed a new economic era dawns for the continent of Africa. Amid its well-publicized setbacks and fragments of societal imbalance, foreign investors are pushing their ways through into the continent. In the heat individual national dysfunctions and disorders such as the apartheid that scarred the South Africans or the genocide in Rwanda, Liberia’s civil war or the Egyptian revolution that ousted Mubarak, the continent picks up again. Nigeria had its share of the civil war and currently battles with terrorism. Libya is preoccupied with the creation of a stable government after toppling several years of dictatorial governance from Ghaddafi. Somalia is recuperating from economic starvation and stagnation as the conflict brings itself to a gradual halt. Malawi recovers from corruption and is being charted to stability by a visionary leader. Kenya also wrestles with its share of terrorist attacks. It is therefore acceptable to state with verifiable facts and figures that Africa rises. Although all may not be fully well with the thriving economy, it is evident that it will end well.
