Bomb

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. 

Reflections: 10 things I learnt from the Seunwrites #endthestory Contest

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".

African Economy Growth, Foreign Investments and Local Participation

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.

Letter to the Nigeria that raised me up

Mother, do you recognize my face? See I haven’t changed much. You remember my sheepish smiles. I still wear them. I have tried severally to remind you about who I am but you seem to grow more distant. I swear I’ve changed. I’m older and wiser and stronger. You remember how you shove NTA at me and stuffed all its  contents down my throat. Well, that was what you had at that time and I’m grateful for them. My childhood memories, hang, like my muffler around my neck. I remember Cadbury Breakfast Telly shows and all the cartoons I watched. I doubt you remember watching some of them with me. There was Superted, Fraggle Rock, Muppet Babies, The Little Prince and Jabber Jaw. How will I not speak of Sesame Street, 3-2-1 Contact, Kidi Vision 101 and Voltron. Oh no! there was Doctor Who, Fawlty Towers, Some Mothers Do Have Them, The Adventures of the Famous Five, Rent-a-Ghost, and Behind the Clouds. Little Mama would give me One Naira and Fifty Kobo to buy a loaf of bread so that I could eat as breakfast with Pronto and Dano Milk before going to school the next day. You were not exactly the perfect mother at that time but I wasn’t complaining. Maybe I knew too little to complain. Mama provided my basic needs and I thought she could sustain providence because of your benignity towards her. As little as I was, I was an observant child as well as a keen listener. I didn’t have 2000 channels in my face or the internet tugging at me. I could observe, eavesdrop, relay and remember as young as I was.

A private matter

A private matter

He  started like a preacher. His face, grim and unsmiling. His eyes, narrowed, unfriendly and fixated on nothing but moping at everything. He wore a navy-blue shirt, neatly tucked in a pair of brown cashmere trousers, streaked with black zigzag lines. His belt, brown, broken and bent at the tip held his trousers high, above his abdomen. I couldn’t help but notice the belt-holes around his waist and how they overlapped on top of one another like the tightened tip of a garri sack.

“Treasures appear in subtle packages my dear” Keffi nudged at me. She seemed to knock me out of the climax of my daydream.

“Hmmmm”. I was wondering why she made such statement in this 49-seated-99-standing lorry. The air smelt of roasted fish and tomatoes and sweat and rowdiness.

“That may be your future husband” Keffi chipped in.

“God forbid! Tufiakwa” I retorted, twirling my hands above my head and dusting them over her head. “It’s your portion Keffi. Not mine”

“I already have my darling Kunle” She chuckled.

Yeah right. I giggled. My stomach tightened. I shuddered at the thought. My eyes darted to and fro the preacher’s body and lingered on his chest.

What kind of love or desperation would make someone like me marry a man like this? I thought.

His shirt, faded, missing a button somewhere above the belly. His hair, uncombed, divided like ridges on  a cassava plantation. He had thick upper lips slightly parted by two rabbit-like incisor teeth. He didn’t even have the looks that I wanted in a man. His body structure, small and frail.

Who knows?  He might not even have eaten for days.

Even if he did, by the miracle of the beauty and the beast, have the looks, he certainly lacked the svelte composure that turned me on, the type that Keffi’s fiancé had.

When we GEJ out

You slightly touch your belly. It’s strike day four. Papa’s forehead shines in the distance as he raises his hands.

“Fellow Nigerians”. His voice makes you retch. It is a mixture of Hennessy and hypocrisy.

You bend over and let out soft moans. You can feel Natalie’s eyes on your skin. You feel it every month when you bend like this. Her silence doesn’t annoy you. She is like that.

You feel a grip on your arms. “Madam, hope no problem”. The grip is so tight that you can hardly breathe. You are certain it belongs to a man and you want to sue him for battery. Yeah, battery. Mr. Olajumoke, your torts lecturer mentioned it last December.

“I’m fine. Thanks” you wrench his fists away from your arms without looking up. Your gaze is dim. You can hardly make out your dark brown slippers from the brown sands on the ground. You blink your eyelids and that leeching tear drops.

Who pulled me into this battle? You ask yourself.

Two hands wrap themselves around your breast, pulling you up away from the swirling dust thumped up by the swarm of legs.

Meet me on the other side

Eventide rose and fell as did the chill of the night into the bonfire at the centre of the village square. Chisom pulled me to side and tugged at my wrapper.

“Listen Emeka. You must do it. You don’t have a choice”

The drums were loud, too loud that I could barely hear what he was saying. I only understood what he said by the deep furrows on his face that formed a scowl and how his lips moved as they did in the early afternoon on our way from the farm.

I stared at him deep in the face. “I’m scared. I don’t know yet. Brother I really don’t know”

I was revered by all the young men in the community probably because I was taller than all of them or my big belly and wide shoulders intimidated most of them. No one dared challenge me to duel. The old women will plead with me to pluck some oil palm fruits, for which our village was known whenever I passed by their compound. They would tease me and call me the husband to their unborn children even though they knew my Omalicha, my beautiful one. The King had promised my father that once I became of age and proven myself as a man, I would become the next in command to his chief guard; the second highest position in the Igwe’s palace. My father had long prayed for this day.

“Make me proud my son” He said as he looked into my tear-filled eyes.

I wept for my father had suffered much. He made misery his bed and sorrow his meal ever since he lost his wife to the palms of death.

“Remember papa’s condition”. Chisom’s voice cut through my thoughts.

His eyes were now wearing the hues of the azure moon. He had a slightly diminutive stature but he was my elder brother; the firstborn of the family. I didn’t respect him enough to advise me about how my life should be run. After all, he showed back into our lives few months ago after his two-year marriage with Ify fell apart. He narrated how she had packed her belongings and followed an oyinbo man, for whom she worked as a nanny, to Lagos. If he was man enough, he would have fought to keep her. If he wasn’t a lazy man, he would have known that money exerted more power than muscles.

I joined my peers in the revelry of the night. I could feel the ground move under my feet. Maybe the earth was inebriated by the ogogoro spills from the benevolent fiesta. Maybe it was the joyful stampede of the young men who danced vigorously in anticipation of their individual moments that sent tremors. Maybe it was my fears that were pushing hard on my chest and asking for a wrestling contest.

The pace of the drumbeats changed. My turn had come. Nnenna and I had asked for the Atilogu drumbeat. Time had sped past like a man under lustful chase by a naked madman. Nnenna’s dark eyes glistened red in the blaze of the fire. Her shoulders dropped as she let out a deep breath. I could feel her veins pulsate faster as I led her by hand to the slaughter house.