TRUTH AND FICTION

SUNDAY RICE

2012-02-03T22:33:00.000+01:00

I'm going on a blogging break for a while (a few weeks, maybe). I'll make the usual noises when I get back. But as a temporary-signing-off post, here's an excerpt from a piece I'm doing.

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It was another Sunday afternoon, and the Okon family marched home from church. The sun’s heat had seared frowns onto their faces and made their clothes damp with sweat. They walked in a single file, Papa Friday in front, Mama Friday bringing up the rear, and between them, Friday and his two younger brothers, Akpan and Uwem. The newest addition to the family, eleven-month-old Emem, had pride of place riding on her mother’s back.

There was something special about Sundays. It wasn’t dressing up in their best clothes or the draining, four-hour church service. It wasn’t the sermons or the memory verses the children were forced to learn. It was not Mama Friday’s thirty-minute, after-church meet and greets, which inevitably led to quarrels with the less sociable Papa Friday. It was Sunday Rice. The Okons had rice on other days, but there was just something about Sunday Rice. Maybe it was that they never ate breakfast on Sundays, so that by the time they got home after church they were almost crazed with hunger. Maybe that was what gave Sunday Rice that extra white fineness, that heavenly sheen that could start their hearts singing with more sincerity than they could ever muster in church. Or maybe it was because with Sunday Rice the children each got a whole egg to themselves, whereas on other days they had to share, if they had any at all. The Okons didn’t know what made Sunday Rice so special; they just knew that it was. The thing about Sunday Rice, though, was that it was never quite enough.

It was for this reason that Akpan, the second and by far the most devious of the children, had devised a plan to rob his brothers of their share. Even as they walked home, he walked through his plan again, looking for loopholes. Finding none, he smiled to himself. If his brothers could have seen his face they might have had fair warning.

They got to the two-room apartment they called home, and Mama Friday immediately started to take out her cooking paraphernalia to the shared kitchen at the backyard. As usual there was no light, and the heat inside the room was stifling. The boys had no energy to play yet, so they lay on the mattress inside the hot room, content to close their eyes and imagine their rice in all its white glory. They had watched their mother prepare the rice several times, so they knew that by now she would be washing it lovingly, careful not to let any of the precious grains fall to the ground. They could see the pot, the red flames from the kerosene stove gradually bringing their rice to the desired state. They could smell it, the rich, heady scent of the rice, and it made their mouths water.

They knew the exact moment when Mama Friday would warm the palm oil stew and they knew that was their cue. They trooped to the kitchen and stood watch, mesmerized, as the white grains, splendidly separate, fell from Mama’s serving spoon and onto the proffered plate. Steam curled up from the plate, enveloping their oily, eager faces in the fragrant heat. Mama Friday filled her and Papa Friday’s plate first, like she always did; then she gave it to the person standing nearest to her – Friday – to take to their father. She would join Papa Friday after she was done in the kitchen. Akpan had deliberately avoided standing next to his mother. For his plan to work, he needed to not be the one to take Papa’s food. Things were going perfectly.

Who can guess what Akpan's plan is?

TTFN.

KISS AND BAIL

2012-01-27T23:13:00.001+01:00

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The kiss comes like a splash of cold water on a harmattan morning. One moment we are sitting there laughing at Ben Stiller’s antics, the next his tongue is making its way down my throat. My first reaction is shock. Next, disgust so strong I can hardly keep myself from gagging. Then there is anger. What the hell? Just because we spend a few hours a week together, that does not give him the right to invade my privacy and orifices with his tongue. I wonder how he manages to talk with that thing in there anyway. Finally, there is pity; and it is that that makes me endure until he pulls away of his own accord. I look at his face, see the stupid self-satisfied smile it wears, and for a moment the pity evaporates and I want to slap him. Before he opens his eyes I rearrange my facial features to show something milder; less disgust, less pity, more whateverness.

“Wow.” He is breathless.

Idiot. I want to scratch the look of wonder off his face. Thanks to him we would have no more movie watching or hanging out time; things would be too awkward now. And I will definitely die of boredom. My gravestone would read, ‘Somebody Somebody, Sometime to Somewhen, Died of Boredom.’ Thanks a lot, Chuks.

“So did you like it? Was it good for you?” I ask in my driest tone.

“It was awesome!”

“Great. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

I turn and stare at the TV for a moment, pretending I can still follow what’s happening. He reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. I turn to him, my eyebrows raised.

“Babes, you know I like you, right?”

Babes? Babes! One tongue shove and I’m already his babes? That immediately kills whatever pity I have left.

“What’s all this?” I ask, moving away from him.

“What’s all what? I like you…”

“And so you try to choke me with your tongue? Yeah, if I had any doubts that you liked me, they’re gone now.”

He smiles.

“Oh that’s good then.” He moves closer to me. “So, what do you say? You like me too?”

How had I never noticed how dense he is? I stand and start walking to the door.

“So what now, you haven’t answered. Do you like me? You think we might have something going here?”

I turn and smile sweetly at him.

“No, we do not have something going here. There is nothing going on here. We had something good , but you had to go and ruin it with your massive tongue!”

I open the door and start to walk out. But one last parting shot seems in order.

“For your future... endeavours; it’s kissing, not organ swapping.”

HOLD MY SHIRT

2012-01-23T23:01:00.000+01:00

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Part of the reason I started this blog in the first place was to get myself to write more frequently and not just when “inspiration” came upon me. The idea was to work with a simple schedule: post once a week on Fridays. But that hasn’t worked out well. Mostly because I have been a slacker, but I hereby repent.

From now on I will be posting original content (as opposed to posts like this or this, which are basically cop outs and shouldn’t count as a weekly post) every Friday. Where in a certain week for instance I put up a post that I didn’t write myself, I will be sure to still post something by me that Friday.

So thank you to everyone who has been reading my blog. You can now expect a post from me every Friday; and if I mess up you can hold my shirt. But I won’t J

ADVENTURELAND

2012-01-09T00:37:00.000+01:00

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“Daddy.”

“Yes,” I’m fiddling with the toaster so I’m barely listening. I wonder what Mona has done again to make another appliance, which had been working perfectly before she touched it, start to malfunction. And when I called her Touch of Death she would complain.

“Are you and mummy getting a divorce?”

My ears perk up and I stop fiddling. I turn to look at Leke. He hitches his glasses up on his nose and blinks back at me, but otherwise he’s perfectly still.

“Ah-ah, Leke. Where did you hear that?”

He swings his leg from the kitchen counter where he is perched, and I remember that Mona hates it when I let him sit there.

“Chuks told me. He said that when you start hearing your parents shouting in their room, then it means they will soon get divorced.”

Leke’s eyes remain on me as he waits for an answer, and I think it tragic that at age eight he doesn’t need me to explain to him what a divorce is. I didn’t know what a divorce was when I was eight. The world has changed, and much of it not for good.

“So when did you hear me and your mummy shouting?”

I know Mona and I have never argued in front of Leke, but still I turn the last few weeks over in my head and cannot come up with one instance when we might have let our guard down enough to raise our voices with him around.

“Yesterday night. I woke up to pee, and I heard mummy…,” I see his eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Daddy, were you beating my mummy?”

Darn. He must have heard us last night. And maybe on other nights before yesterday? Mona had discovered a sex shop a few months back and her excitement had been incredible to watch. Now once a week she would come home with a nondescript grey bag, in which she would tuck the carrier bag from Sex for Sale. She’d found her Nirvana here on earth, and not too far from our house too. Every week there was a different theme, dictated by what she had in her bag.

Mona is very… adventurous. And loud. Last night was the middle of S and M week. She’d turned our bedroom into a dungeon, and we took turns driving each other to the brink of insanity and back. While I’d been able to take my pleasure quietly, Mona has never demonstrated this capacity. Ordinarily I don’t mind; I actually kind of like it, but only when there’s no listening audience. And this time she’d made enough noise to scare our son, whose bedroom was on a different floor! And when I call her Police Siren she will start to vex.

“Leke, relax. Your mummy and I are not getting divorced. We love each other very much. And we love you too,” I ruffle his thick curls as I say this, and he smiles.

“And you did not beat mummy?” his eyes regard me warily.

“Oh no. Your mummy and I were just… playing rough.”

Leke considers this for a moment.

“Me and Chuks play rough sometimes.” He pulls his earlobes in warning, “But Daddy I hope you are not telling a lie o. I’m going to ask Mummy when she comes back.”

I smile to myself, picturing how Mona would keep her face to answer Leke. “You can ask her, Leke. But she’ll probably tell you the same thing.”

“Okay o,” he jumps down from the counter and bounces off in the direction of the living room. I turn back to the toaster just as my phone starts to ring. Siren calling.

“Babes,” her voice is warm, like the honey from two weeks ago. “You won’t believe what just came in at Sex for Sale today.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out.”

“Oh, you will. Next week, I’m going to make you explode. Literally.”

I remember the way she’d licked that warm honey clean off me and sweat breaks out above my upper lip.

“I’ll see you later.”

I rush to speak. “Oh, hey, hey, Mona?”

“Yeah?”

“Honey, while you’re there, could you get a nice soft piece of fabric. Like a silk scarf maybe?”

There’s a slight pause.

“Ooh, are you getting ideas?” she purrs.

“Um… something just came to me, barely minutes ago.”

“Care to share?”

“No, you’ll see.”

“Okay.” Her voice is excited. Like a little girl’s. “You know how I enjoy planning these things, but it’s good to have you put in your thoughts sometimes. Okay, I’ll see you when I get back.”

“'Kay. Bye.”

The silk scarf might work for S and M week, but I would have to think of an excuse for gagging her after that.

SLAM DUNK

2011-12-30T22:32:00.000+01:00

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Mister Kay frowned, his steps faltering as his stomach let out another yelp. When it went quiet again he moved on, trying to keep his trademark bounce in place. He approached a woman selling akara and fried yams by the roadside moments later, and the orchestra started up in his tummy again as saliva filled his mouth. The pieces of fried yam were perfect in their shapelessness; white and wonderful. He could hear the brown balls of akara calling out, ‘Mister Kay, Mister Kay’. He took his wallet out of his pocket and carefully counted all the money there for the umpteenth time that morning, like counting the notes would somehow make them multiply. He put the wallet back in his pocket. He had just enough money to take him to his destination. As he passed the yams and ignored the calls of the akara he cursed Mrs. Kay and the stupid strike she had embarked upon from last night. No food and no sex till further notice; and for an offence he didn’t even know he had committed! Women.

He was the first passenger on the bus to Obalende, and a little while after he’d got on a man entered and sat beside him. He was holding a cob of boiled corn, and as the yellow grains disappeared into his mouth Mister Kay’s stomach started again. The corn man threw a sharp glance at Mister Kay and shifted slightly away, scrunching up his nose in anticipation of the smell. If he hadn’t been too busy pretending not to have heard the sound Mister Kay might have told Corn Man not to worry, that he hadn’t farted, that it was just hunger. All the way to Obalende Corn Man kept eating, one cob after the other, all from a bag he had slung across his shoulder which looked like it contained an endless supply. Thankfully, the bus to Yaba didn’t have any corn-, or any other food, eating passengers. Mister Kay managed his saliva, consoling himself with the thought that by the time he was coming back he would have money, and he would buy anything his stomach desired and silence the voices there. Mrs. Kay could go to hell with her cooking. As for the sex, there were other ways.

Mister Kay got down at Sabo Bus Stop and walked down Chapel Road. He reached number eleven, went to flat two and rang the bell. The house girl opened the door and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

“Mister Kay, welcome sir.”

“Ehen, thank you, Yetunde,” he grunted.

Yetunde turned and walked down the corridor and towards to the dining room, leaving Mister Kay to follow. Normally, he would admire the view of Yetunde’s buttocks as they jiggled underneath her skirt, but this time he could only be bothered to take a glance at them. They passed a mirror in the hall and Mister Kay noticed that his usually red eyes were even more bloodshot today. As they walked further into the house Mister Kay could smell fried eggs. He licked his lips. They entered into the dining room and Mister Kay saw his student eating at the table. He was right about the eggs; breakfast was bread and fried eggs. Yetunde went into the kitchen, leaving him to go past the dining room and into the living room, where Madam was. As he went he stopped to pat his student’s head with forced fondness.

“Ah-ah, Destiny, you cannot greet again because you are eating?”

“Good morning, Uncle Kay,” Destiny managed to sputter through the bread and egg mixture rolling around in her mouth.

“Non, non. En Francais.”

“Oh. Bonjour, Monsieur Kay.”

“Bien, bien,” Mister Kay said, patting her head again, his eyes drifting of their own accord to the breakfast spread. Bread. Eggs. Sausages. Bournvita. Cereal. Butter. Milk. Pancakes. He licked his lips again, just in time to catch the dollop of spit that had been sliding out through his open mouth.

“Mister Kay. In here, please,” Destiny’s mother called from inside the living room.

Mister Kay walked in, and even before he could sit the onslaught began.

“Mister Kay, I am not at all pleased with my daughter’s progress.”

“Madam, what do you…”

“What am I even saying, what progress? It’s been a month now yet all she knows how to say is ‘bonjour’ and ‘bon soir’. Is that what I pay you for? ‘Bonjour’ and ‘bon soir’?”

“Ah-ah, madam. She is making progress now. Don’t you…”

“I must warn you, Mister Kay,” Madam said, taking off her glasses to better enable her pierce him with her eyes. “I don’t play with my money. When I pay for something I want to get my money’s worth, every single time. No exceptions! If I do not hear my daughter speaking French like a Parisian, and soon, you will not be getting paid a single kobo. Mark my word, Mister Kay, because I will not say this again. I am running out of patience.”

Madam put her glasses back on and turned back to the women’s magazine on her lap. Mister Kay stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for her to present the envelope. He had pegged her for one of those people that always gave money in envelopes.

“You may go now,” Madam said, after looking up moments later to find Mister Kay still there.

“Em, Madam… my money for the first month, Ma.”

Madam peered over the rims of her glasses at him.

“Mister Kay, what do you think the worth of the word ‘bonjour’ is in naira.”

“I… Madam, it is…”

“When you figure it out let me know. That will be your payment for the month. Meanwhile, you’re on probation for the next few weeks, in case you didn’t figure that one out. No improvement and you’re gone,” she looked down at her magazine, and then back up at Mister Kay. “Oh, and don’t forget that there are lessons tomorrow. Four p.m. as usual. Don’t be late.”

Mister Kay stood there until he became convinced he had become invisible. Then he shuffled out and into the dining room. As he came up behind Destiny and the breakfast spread he swooped down on the table and snatched up a slice of bread from her plate. And in one swift motion he folded the bread in half and dipped it into her cup of Bournvita. He lifted the dripping bread into his mouth and took the whole slice in at once, not breaking his stride to the corridor that would lead him out of the house. Not turning to see the horror on his student’s face.

N.B.: This is loosely based on a true life story.

THE COILS THAT BIND AGAIN

2011-12-22T23:17:00.001+01:00

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Just when I think I’ve gotten over him he shows up on my doorstep and proves again that I am a liar. I am rushing out of my apartment, keys and a thermos mug of coffee in hand, when I see him lounging against the wall beside my door. I freeze as our eyes meet. He sees into me and I can tell. He’s always had that x-ray vision. I turn around and lock my door. I am running late.

All through the day at work I manage to act normal, get through my tasks. But he is there, lounging against the wall of my heart, saying nothing, his smile knowing. Because he knows, just like I know, that it is far from over. He is making it happen again, just because he can.

Five p.m. comes around reluctantly, like a coy smile; and when it does I flee from the office and speed home in my car. I get to my apartment door and he is there, like he hasn’t moved all day. I put my key in the lock and turn my wrist, not looking at him. I open the door, walk in, close it behind me. In the living room I step out of my shoes and leave them lying there. I keep walking towards my bedroom as I reach behind me and undo my zipper. My dress slides down my body and lands in a pool of black on the floor. As I enter the bedroom I hear the front door close and the lock click into place.

It’s on. Again.

KIDS AND CONSUMER ADVERTISING

2011-12-13T11:18:00.000+01:00

This week ~~because I don't have any writing to post~~ I thought I'd switch things up and share this video I found quite interesting. I think it has information that parents and would-be parents especially need to be aware of. Basically:

Consuming Kids throws desperately needed light on the practices of a relentless multi-billion dollar marketing machine that now sells kids and their parents everything from junk food and violent video games to bogus educational products and the family car. Drawing on the insights of health care professionals, children’s advocates, and industry insiders, the film focuses on the explosive growth of child marketing in the wake of deregulation, showing how youth marketers have used the latest advances in psychology, anthropology, and neuroscience to transform American children into one of the most powerful and profitable consumer demographics in the world. Consuming Kids pushes back against the wholesale commercialization of childhood, raising urgent questions about the ethics of children’s marketing and its impact on the health and well-being of kids.

So enjoy. And if you find it useful, share.

REPLAY

2011-12-05T23:42:00.000+01:00

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You come to the place beside her, where you used to lie. You see the depression his body made when he got up this morning, the smile he left on her face. You see the bedside table, and that the picture of you and her smiling, the sea breeze blowing her weave in your face, is no longer there. She’s taken the abstract painting you loved and had bought for a small fortune off the living room wall. You wonder what she did with it. You haven’t seen her ring, and the pale patch of skin on her finger has started to blend in with the rest of her hand. You ask yourself why she took it off so soon.

You know she can now turn on the big generator on her own; she did it two nights ago. You should be happy. You used to grumble each time she asked you to go turn it on when you were here. She moans and stretches, his smile still on her face, and you notice she’s wearing the last gift you’d given her: the black negligee. You know that even as the satin caresses her skin it is not you she’s thinking of. She opens her eyes and bounces out of bed, humming that tune, and you know she’s happy.

You tell yourself you’re happy that she’s happy. You're happy that, five years after you passed, she can hum "I’m Alive" again. Happy that she got rid of that painting she’d always hated. That she can smile that way again. That now she can turn on the big generator. That she and the world moved on. Without you.

YES WOMAN

2011-11-21T22:43:00.001+01:00

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Mama Bose chased the flies from her ground melon seed with the napkin she used to dust the shelves in her stall. They went away and quickly found a place among her dried peppers. She sighed as she flipped over another page. Stupid flies.

“Mummy,” she heard her daughter call.

“What is it?” She grunted, without looking up from the book she’d been frowning into.

“Mummy Caro said you should give her crayfish two hundred naira, that she will bring money tomorrow.”

Mama Bose looked up, her face dangerously calm. “Bose.”

“Ma?” Bose said, taking a small step back even though she was already beyond her mother’s reach.

“Have you gone to where I sent you?”

“Em… no, Ma. It is when I was going that Mummy Caro called me to…”

“So, your name is now Caro?”

“Ma?”

“Ehn now, your name is Caro, and Mummy Caro is your mother. That is why you will go on her errand before my own, not so?”

“Ah! No, Ma,” Bose said, bending her knees over and over in apology.

“My friend, will you get out and go where I sent you!”

Bose started to run off but stopped when her mother called again.

“Come back here! The palm oil she collected last week, has she given you the money?”

“Em… no, Ma.”

“Idiot!” Bose barely had time to jump out of harm’s way as her mother’s slipper went flying in the direction of her face.

“It is you and people like Mummy Caro that want to destroy my business. But God will not allow you people. Come back here and let me help you twist that your mouth!” Mama Bose screamed at her daughter’s retreating figure. “It’s not only crayfish two hundred naira. Come and carry my whole stall! Nonsense.”

Mama Bose went to retrieve her slipper and, still huffing, settled down again with her accounts book. Her creditors were getting too many, owing too much, and she didn’t have the mind to chase them. At this rate she wouldn’t have enough to replenish her stock next week. Christmas was coming and the children needed new clothes. She had to send money to her parents; they had been complaining too much of late. She prayed her husband would find a job soon. Things had gotten so hard since he’d been laid off.

“Mama Bose. Mama Bose! You no dey hear?”

Mama Bose looked up to find Kemi, who lived across the street, peering at her.

“Ah, hope no problem o. It’s like you’re not here at all,” Kemi said.

“No, my sister. No problem. How is the family?”

“Everybody is fine o. Your people nko?”

“They are there jo. So what do you want to buy?”

Kemi reeled of a long list of items and Mama Bose rushed to get each one, her heart racing with the thought that maybe she would be able to stock up after all. If she got more customers like Kemi that week. After she had packaged everything nicely, she handed the bulging bags to the customer with a smile.

“Everything is five thousand seven-fifty.”

“No problem,” Kemi said as she turned to leave. “My brother will bring the money on Monday.”

The smile froze on Mama Bose’s face as she stared after Kemi. She managed to call out a cheery “No problem” through her clenched teeth.

There are times when I should have said no to things and people, sometimes with a dirty slap just to avoid any confusion. But I didn’t always. I think I’ve gotten better at saying no, though I’m still not where I should be. Are you able to say no when you know you should, or are you the smile-and-clench-your-teeth type?

A SLICE OF HEAVEN

2011-11-12T09:23:00.000+01:00

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He felt the impact first, and then there was the sound of breaking glass. He glared through the windscreen at the vehicle in front of him and turned off the ignition with one angry turn of his wrist, glad that the offending vehicle could go nowhere. It took him just a few seconds to get rid of his cuff links and pull up his shirt sleeves. All the while he mumbled his fury, imagining what he would do to the imbecile who had just cost him a headlamp. He flung open his door, ready to attack.

In front of him the driver’s door came open, and in slow motion they emerged: two feet in high heels first, and a pair of skinny, silky smooth, light skinned calves that seemed endless. And then came the thighs, deliciously firm and covered midway in a denim miniskirt that rode higher as the rest of her came into view. And then there was her. She was wearing one of those tight black things – tube top abi pipe top? It stood out well against her light skin and moulded every curve. Her head was covered in short, dark curls. She got out of her car and stood for a moment with her right hand on her forehead. Her long face wore an anxious look and her full, bright red lips were pouted. Wahala had never looked so good. She began to walk to him.

His hands shook as he struggled out of the car and into the midday heat, trying to get some sound out through his suddenly uncooperative throat. Surrounded by Lagos rush hour, all he could do was stare, his face wearing a look that he was sure could only be described as mumu-ish.

“Oh my God, I am so so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m so silly.”

She wrung her hands as she spoke, her forehead creased and her voice sincere. He could only gaze at her mouth.

She bent over to inspect the shattered headlamp in that distracted, completely unselfconscious way that only the truly confident could pull off – not minding that if the strange man tilted his head just so, he could catch a glimpse of pink lace under that excuse for a skirt. Well, he did tilt his head, and he swore he could feel his legs turning to jelly. Just when he thought he would collapse she moaned in despair and stood upright again.

“It’s bad. It’s really bad. That headlight is gone,” she said. She turned to him.

“Look, I don’t know what to say. There’s no excuse. My tail light is bad as well, but hey, this is all my fault. I am so sorry. It’s just… well it’s a new car and I haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet so I mess up sometimes. This is the worst damage I’ve done yet. And your car is clearly new too and really expensive…”

He stood there, drowning in her returnee accent, trying to clear his throat while making as little noise as possible. She took his silence for anger.

“God I am so stupid!” she said, hitting her forehead with an open palm.

“No, no, it’s okay. These things happen. It was a mistake,” his words came out in a croak he could barely recognize.

“Really? You’re okay? You’re not mad?” she asked, her eyes round and pleading.

“Of course not. It’s nothing…”

“Oh my God!”

He found himself in a hug he didn’t see coming. He froze for a moment, and then he put his arms around her breathed her, reveling in her warm, soft feel. She smelled of something wild; tempting, yet elusive. He closed his eyes. When she let go of him he had a stupid smile on his face, but he didn’t care.

“You’re an angel. No! You’re a lifesaver. Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this,” she gushed, striding back to her car.

He stood there, trying to summon up the courage to ask her for her number. He was still there when she started her car and honked. He got back in his car to make way for her to leave, his head still reeling from contact with her. She blew him a kiss, her perfectly manicured fingernails waving at him as she drove by.

He sat there in the car with the engine idling. He’d had his slice of heaven. All he needed now was a good story to tell oga.

WIFE, MOTHER, WOMAN

2011-11-05T09:24:00.000+01:00

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They wouldn’t do it in their bedroom. No, the bedroom hadbecome way too boring; they’d been doing it there the past fifteen years. Sowhere now? Choices, choices. Dining table? No, the glass wouldn’t feel comfybeneath her; she knew from experience. Maybe if she stood and held on to it?No. She’d always considered standing a tad slutty, which would be fine exceptshe wasn’t in a slutty mood today. She was feeling all tender and womanly. Thekitchen? No, it presented a similar problem to the dining table. Hmmm… shecould go to his office and surprise him. She’d wear that nice red wraparounddress he loved—it would definitely make for ease of access—and nothing under.Kind of like Nicole Kidman in that movie, what was the name again? No, maybeshe’d do that for their anniversary. Today she wanted to be home.

Oh, the new car might work. They hadn’t done it in a carsince they were newlyweds. It seemed like such a long time ago now, that time whenthey were young and free and invincible. They could do anything anywhere, andthey had. Now it seemed they barely had enough hours in a day, and none tospare for each other. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love,like in the old days, and fallen asleep talking in each other’s arms. And thatwas why she’d asked him to leave work early today, taken half a day off workherself and come home to prepare.

Yes, the car. The car was a no. She loved the idea ofreliving their youth, but how ever would they explain the shaking of the car toAkpan, their nosy gateman/security guard. Actually, he wouldn’t need them toexplain at all, and that there was the real problem. She would never be able tolook him in the eye again. Or should they drive the car out when it got dark? No,that would be too much work, and it would not be worth the risk of gettingrobbed.

She strolled into the living room and looked around. Whythe heck not? With the feather soft beige rug and matching couches, it was herfavourite room in the house. And at least it wasn’t their bedroom. Simple ideaswere indeed the most beautiful. She strode to her shopping bag and got out hergoodies. She lit the scented candles and scattered the rose petals over thefloor and couch. Next, her favourite Sade CD. She took out the new negligee toadmire it again. He would love this; she couldn’t wait to put it on, and then havehim take it off. But first, a nice soak in the tub, with that sexy body baththat was “guaranteed to have him drooling.” Well, she certainly intended tofind out.

She took her bags and started to climb up the stairs, thenshe heard a key turn in the lock. Oh no, he was earlier than she’d anticipated.No worries, he could share her bath. She turned around, wearing her seductresssmile, as she heard the door swing open. Her heart sank as her twins boundedthrough the door, a weary looking Bala dragging their suitcases behind him.

“Ah-ah, what happened? You people didn’t go to schoolagain? Bala, did the car spoil or what?” she cried, not bothering to hide herdispleasure.

“No, madam…”

“Holiday extended!” her son whooped.

“What?”

“Apparently, schools cannot resume today. They say it’sbecause of the elections. So we’re here for like another week or so,” herdaughter said.

They stopped short as they noticed the candles and rosepetals and music. Then, as one, they let out a loud cackle.

“Mummy, what’s this?” her son managed to gasp through hislaughter.

“Mummy the mummy! So this is how you and daddy use to enjoywhen we’re not around abi. See romantic sturvs meeehn!” Priye screamed. Sheturned to her brother. “Ebi, see that’s why they sent us to boarding school.”

“Mummy, you’re too much jor!”

She turned and started back up the stairs, their laughingvoices following her. She’d call Tonye and tell him not to bother coming homeearly. Maybe if they were lucky they’d still get to do it tonight. In theirbedroom.

THE PINK CHICK: MOMODU

2011-10-27T21:49:00.002+01:00

Image from here

If you haven't read the previous Pink Chick stories, you can find them here, here and here. The idea was to tell one story from the perspective of four different characters, and this is the last of the series. Thanks for reading.

Momodu was king of the world, or at least king of the roads. Who did that mumu in the old Mercedes think she was, trying to overtake his tipper? He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile as he pushed down hard on the accelerator. The new truck gave a healthy groan and shot forward. Momodu sneered at the ugly girl in the Mercedes as he passed; she thrust her middle finger up and at him. He laughed. Whoever had taught her to curse must have forgotten to tell her that she was supposed to use all five fingers. Or was this a new style that small children had devised. Pity, these children had no appreciation for the finer things in life.

Speaking of life’s finer things, this new tipper was definitely one of them. He loved the easy way the engine rumbled to life with the slightest twist of his wrist, loved the smell of new that welcomed him whenever he climbed up inside it, loved the look of envy in the other drivers’ eyes, loved the shiny blue colour of it. When Oga Paulinus had given him the keys last week for the first time, he had pulled his own ears—like they weren’t long enough as they were!—and warned him. “If anything happens to this tipper eh… if you do mistake crash this tipper, you better crash yourself join.”

Momodu smiled at the memory. But then he saw something that quickly turned his smile into a frown: traffic lights. Yellow. Momodu gunned the accelerator and felt the adrenalin high as he raced to beat the light. A few seconds before he got to the intersection, the light turned red. Momodu clenched his teeth. It was too late to use the brakes now, so he let the tipper go on ahead, almost running into the jeep that had dared to venture out of Ogidi Road. He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The idiot should have passed, so Momodu could help him remodel his car. He looked in his rear view mirror to see the man’s five fingers pointing at him through the driver’s window. Now that was how you said waka. Another driver might have been bothered about the stickers, prominently displayed on his tailgate, that said “If I drive rough call 08022365780.” Let them call; it wouldn’t be the first time. The ogas never bothered him because he was always several minutes early offloading his consignments, and he’d never been involved in an accident in his two years driving tippers.

Momodu swerved into George Street without slowing down for the turn, running into the potholes at the beginning of the street and causing clumps of sand to fall from the back of the tipper. As he sped down the street he glanced at the clock on the dashboard: three fifty-seven. He was early. He would have more than enough time to visit Solo, maybe have a drink or two with him, and then head off to Eden Hotel, where he would meet Silver. Ah, Silver… that one knew how to make a man feel like a man. Of all the girls at Eden she was the best—he should know; he’d sampled them all at one time or the other. And to think she was only new to the pleasure business. She must have been born with the talent of pleasing men. Ever since that first night with her he’d been begging Madam Abeni to put Silver on exclusive, for him. But she insisted he could not afford Silver on exclusive and she was right, whether Momodu liked it or not. So he had to manage whatever time he could get with Silver, and that was why he needed to get to Eden on time, before anyone could call and order her. After having had her, sleeping with any of the other prostitutes at Eden would be like going back to the rubbish truck he’d been driving before this new one. Unthinkable!

As Momodu sped down George Street his phone started to ring. He took it out from his shirt pocket and looked at the screen. His blood pressure shot up. He put the phone back in his pocket and tried to ignore the ringing, the vibrating against his chest. He sighed as he took it out again. He knew that woman; she would keep calling forever. He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

“Wetin!”

“Momodu, abeg call me back. I no get cre…”

“My friend, you better talk wetin you wan talk. I no dey call you back anything.”

“Momodu, you sef! Eh, na Beke school uniform. The one wen im get don tear finish. We get to buy another one.”

Momodu hissed.

“Abeg I no get money! You no fit take money from your market buy the uniform? No be you born am?”

“Ehn, na only me born am! If you like stay for PH there dey carry woman. No come Yenagoa come see your pikin. At your old age…”

“See dis one o! You think say because you manage born pikin for me I don become your boy-boy. I fit just…”

The words died in Momodu’s throat as he realized that he had gone off the road and was going to run into the red Kia parked on the shoulder. He let the phone fall from his hand as he slammed on the brakes, too late. He heard glass breaking and metal crunching; felt himself thrown forward, saw the airbag explode to envelope his face, knocking the breath out of him. The airbag deflated, leaving him with a sore face, a pounding head and a nasty smell in his lungs. But he felt fine otherwise. He clambered out of the truck to find a small group of people standing by, ogling his truck and the car it had squashed. He looked at his poor baby. The crash was bad, and it would take a lot to get the new truck to look new again. His ogas would not be pleased. Across the road he saw two women on the ground, one wailing like a police siren. At first he thought they were fighting and he felt a little spark of excitement, but a closer look told him that one was in distress and the other was trying to comfort her. The police siren should be the owner of the red Kia; she looked like she had money. She should take it easy now, Momodu thought. Was it not just a car? At least nobody had died.

“Bros, were you drunk or what?” one of the watchers, a young dark skinned man, said to Momodu.

“No o! I neva drink today,” he quickly replied.

“Whether you are drunk or not, you have killed somebody’s child. All you tipper drivers that behave like mad people! Don’t think you will go anywhere o. We are taking you to the police.” This was from an elderly man in faded Ankara. Momodu was about to tell him to go prepare to meet his ancestors—at his age they must be eagerly awaiting him—instead of helping the living to mind their business.

“Yes, una hol’ am!” A fat woman screamed, and the dark skinned man and a few others gathered around him.

“But nobody bin dey inside the car now…” Momodu protested as they grasped his shoulders.

“Shut up! You no see dat woman for there. Na im pikin…”

The speaker was interrupted by the sudden silence. Momodu and the crowd turned as one to see why the wailing woman had suddenly gone quiet. They followed her eyes and her smile to the young boy running across the street to her, his hands raised heavenward. What miracle was this?

Momodu didn’t need anybody to tell him. He shook off the hands of his distracted captors and took off down the street.

"RULE NUMBER ONE" ON ETHER BOOKS

2011-10-14T17:58:00.000+01:00

My short story, "Rule Number One", was published on Ether Books yesterday. Here's the cover:

You can download it via the Ether Books app, which, still works on only iPhones and other i-stuff.

Please give it a read and a rating if you can, or give it a review here.

THE PINK CHICK: MAMA TAMUNO

2011-10-12T09:42:00.001+01:00

Image from here

The boli seller wiped her forehead with the corner of herwrapper and turned over the plantains roasting over the coal fire. Theplantains were hot, but the calluses on her hands did a good job of protectingher from the heat. She wondered where all her customers were today. It wasgetting to evening and she had sold less than half of her stock for the day. Andit wasn’t even a rainy day.

She thought of Tamuno, who was staying with her mother inDiobu for a few days. At that very moment they would be at Mile I park, at thestall where her mother sold local gin and ‘man power’. Tamuno would be helpinghis grandmother serve the touts and bus drivers that frequented the stall. MamaTamuno frowned. She didn’t like her son mixing with those kinds of people,didn’t want them influencing his five-year-old mind. She needed her customersto show up so she could make enough money for him to start school next session.His mates were ahead of him as it was. She would have been able to send Tamunoto school last year if his no-good father hadn’t kept stealing all the moneyshe’d been making and spending it on gin and prostitutes. As if that wasn’t enough, hewould come home drunk and try out his favourite boxing moves on her. Sometimeshe would force himself on her, bathing her face with saliva and stale ginbreath; but that only happened when he’d run out of her money so he couldn’tafford even the most desperate of prostitutes. She sighed. Her mother would bereturning Tamuno tomorrow, and along with him she would bring the condemnationand I-told-you-so look she had worn ever since things had started to go exactlyas she had predicted, after a pregnant Mama Tamuno had married the father ofher child.

Mama Tamuno heard footsteps and looked up to see an answerto her prayer. She smiled a welcome at her favourite customer. Mummy Sojiwasn’t carrying any bags today, like she usually did when she brought oldclothes and toys for Tamuno, but she didn’t mind. Mummy Soji never haggled, andshe always let Mama Tamuno keep the change. And when there was no change wouldjust give her extra money, saying, “This one na tip.” Always with a smile. MamaTamuno watched as she ran to her stand, admiring her in her jeans and T-shirtand no make up.

“Ah, Mummy Soji. Welcome o. Long time. Which one you want?”

Mummy Soji chose four large plantains and a few pieces ofyam, and Mama Tamuno started to scrape the blackened parts off the yam with hertrusty knife.

“How Soji?”

“He’s fine. He dey for car. School don close so I get tocarry am go market because nobody dey house.”

She looked up from the yams to glance at the car. Shewasn’t bothered that the car looked empty from where she stood. Maybe Sojiwas playing with something on the floor of the car.

“Papa Soji nko?”

Mummy Soji started to answer and Mama Tamuno was stillsmiling when she saw, from the corner of her eyes, a tipper, loaded with redsand, start to run off the road at full speed. The smile died on her face. Itwas headed straight for her customer’s car, parked across the road from them. Shescreamed just as the tipper crashed into Mummy Soji’s car from behind, crushingit into a lump of red metal and shimmering glass, spilling red sand everywhere. Mummy Soji spun around toinvestigate. In the few seconds that followed, the world—or George Street, atleast—was still. Legs were leaden, hands and mouths hung limp, eyes watered, heartsstopped. Mama Tamuno did not look at the people who had stopped in their trackson the street and now stood staring at the crash. She looked at Mummy Soji’sback and waited for it. When Mummy Soji flew up in the air Mama Tamuno wasalmost quick enough to catch her. Almost. She hit the floor with a force that made MamaTamuno wince, but she knew Mummy Soji wouldn’t feel any pain, at least not fromthe fall. It had been the same for her when she’d lost her second child.

The erstwhile immobile watchers were eventually able tomove again; some shuffled away, shaking their heads but going about thebusiness they were about before, others moved to the crash site to have acloser look. A few stood around, staring at the grieving mother and makingsympathetic noises. Mama Tamuno struggled to get a hold of the hysterical womanrolling in the sand and screaming unintelligible sounds, but Mummy Soji’senergy seemed boundless. It was while she was looking around, about to ask forhelp to restrain her customer, that she saw the smiling boy run across the street andtoward her stand. His hands were raised in the air and she could make outsomething pink in them.

Mama Tamuno managed to grip Mummy Soji’s shoulders, and sheshook her hard. Then she used all her energy to raise the uncooperative bodyinto a sitting position. Using her body to hold Mummy Soji up, she pointedtowards the boy.

“See Soji! See am for there! See am!”

She screamed this over and over, and Mummy Soji must have finally heard her because she grew quiet and followed her pointing hand. MamaSoji felt the tension drain out of her customer’s body as the realization cameto her; felt the smile she gave through her tears; heard the collective sigh ofrelief of the watchers. She smiled, too, as Soji came closer. She saw thepainted chick in his hands, but she didn’t bother to wonder.

"THE QUARRY" ON ETHER BOOKS

2011-10-12T00:14:00.002+01:00

My flash fiction piece, "The Quarry", will be published on Ether Books today. Here's the cover:

It's available as a free download as well, but unfortunately the Ether Books app works only on iPhones (and other i-stuff) for now.

Please give it a read and a rating if you can. You can also give it a review here.

Write short fiction and poetry? You might want to give Ether Books a look.

MY POEM ON ETHER BOOKS...

2011-10-04T22:04:00.001+01:00

Some exciting news. My poem, The Gap, got published on Ether Books today. Here's the cover:

To read it (it's free!) you'll need to download the Ether Books app, which isn't available yet on Android, sadly, but is currently in development.

Please give it a read and a rating, if you can. You can also give it a review here.

If you write short fiction and poetry you should check Ether Books out.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY: THE PINK CHICK - THE MUMMY ISSUE

2011-09-30T23:46:00.001+01:00

Image from here

Hallo, guys. If you haven't read The Pink Chick (the first version), you should cos that's the main story. When I wrote that first Pink Chick story, that was supposed to be it. But then I had the idea to tell the same story from different perspectives. The first story was seen through the eyes of Soji, the child, and this one is seen through his mother's eyes.

She turned left into George Street. Next stop, MamaTamuno’s place. She looked at her watch, sighed and pressed down on theaccelerator. Three forty-five. She was fifteen minutes behind schedule, thanksto the stupid traffic on Aba Road. She only hoped Mama Tamuno would have boli ready so she didn’t have towait another ten minutes at least. The snack of roasted plantains and fishwould be enough for her and Soji until she was done making dinner. She hoped she would be done before Laolu got in from work.

She hated going to the market; hated having to rub bodiesagainst all those people as she maneuvered her way around the stalls. She hatedthe shouts, the smells, the filth… the haggling. That was why she went foodstuffshopping at most once every month. She would buy huge quantities of food andstore the perishables in the large freezer she’d bullied Soji’s daddy intobuying. It was even more stressful when she had to take Soji with her to themarket, like today. She loved her son, but God knew Soji made it hard to notwant to conk him like ten times every single day. They said curiosity was agood quality, especially in kids, but surely, not the type that had killed thecat. That was how he’d almost put his head in the frying pan the other day whenshe was frying fish, after she’d told him to leave the kitchen. Her naggingmother-in-law had visited last week and had given her an earful about soji’sburn when she saw it. She’d snapped at the woman for the first time when shecould no longer stand her whiny voice grating on her nerves. That had shut herup good. Maybe she would try it with Laolu one day. She couldn’t tell whotalked more: Laolu or his tiresome mother. And today again she had almost lostSoji when he’d wandered away while she was pricing croaker; what he was lookingfor she didn’t know till now.

She parked her Kia on the shoulder of the road, opposite MamaTamuno’s stand, pleased to find no eager customers waiting for the roasting boli. She opened her door and turned inher seat to look at Soji. The waistband of her trousers tightened around her once-flatstomach, reminding her of the 15kg she was still struggling to lose. Maybe whenshe did Laolu would look at her again. They hadn’t had sex in weeks.

“Stay where you are, Soji. If you come out ehn, you will see what I will do toyou,” she said, pulling her ears so the message could sink in. He gave her thatnod he did with his eyes. She got out of the car and strode across the road. MamaTamuno looked up and smiled, showing her spaced out teeth.

“Ah, Mummy Soji. Welcome o. Long time. Which one you want?”

She selected four plantains and a few pieces of yam, and MamaTamuno proceeded to scrape the blackened parts off the yam pieces with herknife.

“How Soji?” she asked as she worked, her smile still inplace.

“He’s fine. He dey for car. School don close so I get tocarry am go market because nobody dey house.”

“Papa Soji nko? How 'im dey?”

She sighed and turned her mouth down. “Ehn, he’s fine…”

Her words were swallowed by the deafening crash, the soundof breaking glass and crunching metal. Even before she whirled to find her carunder the tipper her stomach had dissolved into hot liquid. For a few secondsshe could do nothing but stare at the wreckage, her mouth hanging open. Thenshe flew up in the air and threw herself hard to the ground, shouting soundsshe never knew she could make. The only pain she felt as her body hit the floor was the onein her chest. She rolled around in the dust, images of the little, mangled bodyin the car filling her head and pushing burning tears from her eyes.

She felt Mama Tamuno trying to hold her, saying words shecould not hear. What would she tell Laolu? Maybe if she hadn’t been so mad atSoji for wandering off in the market she would have taken him with her to buythe boli, like she usually did, andnot left him in the car. Maybe if she had left for the market earlier she wouldhave been done earlier and able to prepare dinner in time and not have to stopfor boli and not leave her son in thecar and not get him killed. Maybe if she wasn’t so afraid of getting cheatedthat she refused to hire someone to shop for her and insisted on always doingher shopping herself she wouldn’t have gone to the market that day and Sojiwouldn’t have wandered off and she wouldn’t have been mad and she wouldn’t haveleft him in the car and she wouldn’t have caused him to die. Maybe…

She felt strong hands—Mama Tamuno’s?—grasp her shouldersand shake her. She felt her body being pushed up into a sitting position andher face being lifted. Why would they not let her cry and die in peace?

“See Soji! See am for there! See am!”

Somehow, the words made it through the fog in her head. Shefollowed Mama Tamuno’s pointing hand and saw him running across the street,raising his hands like he’d just won a race. Her baby. The tears continued tofall from her eyes, but a smile was breaking through.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY: THE PINK CHICK

2011-09-23T23:43:00.001+01:00

Image from here

This time he would obey mummy. He wanted to see that good smile that lit up her face whenever she was pleased with him. He liked that smile. It wasn’t like the one he had seen her give daddy so many times. And when she would smile this bad smile daddy would just keep talking. The last time he had almost told daddy, shut up, can’t you see that mummy feels like slapping you! It hadn’t happened yet, but he thought one day mummy just might.

Strapped in with his seat belt in the back seat, his legs started to shake. He forced them to be still. Mummy had said not to move. “Stay where you are, Soji. If you come out ehn, you will see what I will do to you.” Mummy had parked beside the road and crossed to the other side to buy the boli and fish that would hold them till dinner was ready. He would obey mummy today. He didn’t want it to be like that day when mummy had asked him to leave the kitchen because she was frying fish and didn’t want the oil to jump on him. When mummy had turned her back he had gone closer to the pan. He wanted to know what made the oil jump like that when they put fish in it. He put his face close to the pan. He heard a popping sound and started to marvel at it, before the pain registered and he screamed. Mummy had given him a conk before rubbing Vaseline on his forehead where the oil had jumped. The wound did not heal before his sixth birthday last two weeks, and that was why he had a dark spot on his head in all the pictures. He unconsciously raised his hand to touch his head. He would obey mummy today. If he kept her happy, maybe she would agree to buy him ice cream from Skippers. Yum.

He looked out the window and knew at once that today would not be the day. He quickly checked to see that mummy was still haggling with the boli woman. Then he unstrapped the seat belt and slipped out of the car and into the gutter to follow the pink baby chicken that had walked past. He had seen white chickens, black chickens, black and white chickens, grey chickens, brown chickens, even orange chickens. He had never seen pink. He crept along, following the chick away from the car. If it was aware of Soji’s presence it didn’t act like it. He wondered if the chick would lead him to its mother, in all her pink glory. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends. A pink chicken!

The chick stopped, one leg suspended mid-air, cocked its head and let out a shrill, pitiful sound. It was crying! Tears sprang to Soji’s eyes as he realized the chick had lost its mother. Soji knew his mummy had bad smiles and could conk very well, but he didn’t want her to be lost. He would adopt the chick! He would take it home and feed it grains of rice and garri. It would become part of their family. A pink mummy chicken was pretty awesome, but who needed a pink mummy chicken when they had him? He inched forward to grab the chick. It tried to run away, but Soji got it. There, there, Soji thought as he smoothed the feathers of the shrieking chick, everything will be fine.

He climbed out of the gutter, careful not to hurt the chick. Mummy’s car was no longer where he had left it. There was a big tipper where the car had been, and beneath it he could just make out the red of mummy’s now squashed Kia. He looked across the street, and there was mummy in the boli woman’s arms, both of them on the floor. Her hair was scattered and she was shaking, rubbing herself on the floor. He had never seen mummy cry. He ran across the road to meet her. Maybe the pink chick would cheer her up.

The boli woman was the first to see him. She shook mummy and pointed, pushing her to sit up, to look at him. He raised the pink chick like a trophy and saw mummy slowly start to smile, even with the tears. It was her good smile. He smiled back. He knew the pink chick would make her happy.

DECADES II ON AFROSAYS

2011-09-14T23:25:00.002+01:00

Hi, guys.

My story will be featured on Afrosays for the Decades II project.

Decades is a series of eight short stories that is aimed at taking readers on a journey planned around a person's life in different stages, in decades. Decades I was the male version, written by a selection of talented writers/bloggers. Decades II is, you guessed right, the female version.

See our banner:

Cool, right.

Decades II kicks off Monday, 19 September, and one story will be put up every day. Follow it on Afrosays.

NINJA CAMERAMAN

2011-09-10T22:13:00.000+01:00

Click click click, his camera went, capturing moments,stealing time, freezing it in each frame. He was Ali, bobbing to the right tocatch her almost shy, now familiar smile; weaving just so, the better to takein the way the groom would run a proprietary thumb over her cheek. His sorefinger and stiff arms were not reason enough to miss that moment when motherheld daughter’s hands, the first tears falling from their eyes. He’d had tostep lightly to the right to make a timely click when both families’ fathersdid that hug that men did, their faces shining with pride. And when the bridekomole’d he’d had to go down with her, or he would have lost that mock seriouslook on her face. She tossed the bouquet and he jumped in time with the girls.Lucky, or he would have missed the vicious lunge of the bride’s older sister,the way she shoved the bridesmaid aside.

He saw her at the entrance and forgot the bride for amoment as he sped to put her in his camera. These people had to be really big to have her,big shot celebrity that she was, at their wedding.

He spun to freeze the grey haired couple sharing a kiss.

The woman quarreling about souvenirs, she had her day whenhe raced to her side. She almost slapped the camera out of his hands but hebolted away just in time. Little bride and little groom—him pulling her braids,she stomping on his foot—he bent and took them. The aso-ebi girls sitting attheir table, he got them when he paused, not missing the intensity on theirfaces; the kind that could only come from people trading gossip. That randomwoman with the skyscraper gele, the baby peeing in his pants, the best manstuffing his face, the MC laughing at his own jokes, he caught them all and putthem in is camera.

His body ached from chasing the people around all day, catchingthem when they were least aware of the dark eye of the camera that was anextension of his. But he didn’t mind. He had always found it harder to take themwhen they posed.

THANKFUL SATURDAY

2011-09-03T22:22:00.001+01:00

Hi guys.

These are the things I am thankful for this past week:

- Good movies (Note: If you haven't seen the Indian movies Three Idiots, My Name is Khan and Ghajini, you should. These Bollywood people are not playing sha.)

- Public holidays (oh yeah!)

- Funny people

- KFC ice cream (yum)

- Good conversation, and the people who let me listen without conditions

EVERY SO OFTEN

2011-08-23T21:32:00.005+01:00

Image from here

I've been at a loss as to what to post, so I asked my friend and fellow Farafina Trust workshop participant, Tolu Talabi, to let me post this story, which I really like. The story isn't complete yet, but this will leave you aching for more. I promise.

Every so often a young girl disappears.

It has happened enough times that the people who live around here know it to be a pattern. But that hasn't stopped them from living their lives. And it hasn't stopped us from continuing what we do.

We pace ourselves, careful not to strike too frequently from the same place. Careful not to pick too often from the local populace. Careful not to stir the people up enough to act. Nigerians have typically been lethargic, rural Nigerians even more so. Things like this typically get attributed to supernatural forces. But I know better. We know better. We get paid well to do this.

Work comes easier on Sunday nights, when everyone is rushing back home after their weekends. It is the time you are most likely to meet lone travellers, flagging down cars by the roadside, willing to take a risk by riding in a car that isn't officially marked as a taxi. But Fridays evenings are cleanest because no one notices people are missing until the following week. Not that it matters anyway. The police would set up ineffective roadblocks and half-heartedly search anyone who isn't willing to pay the 20 naira fee they charged the passing cars. By the end of the week, the checkpoints would be gone and police would return to their original posts with their pockets full, but the girls would still be missing.

Moshood drives, he speaks Igbo, Hausa and Yoruba fluently, and never stops complaining. He complains about the roads, he complains about the government, when it rains he complains about the rains, and when it doesn't, he complains about the sun. It works well. People bond easily over shared grief. Anita chews gum incessantly. She spends her time picking at her nails or looking out of the window with a distinct lack of interest. Sometimes she tells Moshood to slow down, says it loud enough so that everyone hears, then goes back to chewing loudly and rolling her eyes. It is all an act.

I am the logistics guy. I'm mousy one that looks like he doesn't fit in. I always have my glasses on, and an open book on my lap. I think it makes me look smarter. I imagine that people look into the car, see me with the rest of the group and automatically think, "ok, this is safe. They can't all be together." One time last year, this girl looked to me for help when she realised what was going on. I took off my glasses and looked away. She started crying and cursing us in Yoruba. Without taking his eyes off the road, Moshood hit her with a massive closed fist. There was a painful crack as her neck snapped back and her body went limp. She was unconscious for the rest of the ride. I took him aside when we got to the house and told him to be careful next time. He broke her jaw, and damaged goods are bad for business.

That is not a problem we have often, we are not violent people. We sometimes have a knife, but never carry guns. Or at least that is what I would like to think. Sam is the one who carries the knife. He is a scrawny man who always wears huge flowing native outfits. With his skinny frame, anything he wears hangs around him like a curtain, blowing in the wind, folding in on itself. The knife emerged out of those folds once, within the folds could be a gun, a sack, even another Sam. I never ask for specifics, as long as he has whatever he needs. He is constantly smiling nervously, and he fidgets, packing his clothes in with hidden hands. Mr. Most likely to get us caught.

It is always just the four of us, leaving enough room in the car for only one more passenger. Two if they are together and if we are feeling generous. We rarely are, it complicates things. I am always amused when I see those movies where five muscle bound guys jump out of a Peugeot 505, three of them carrying guns, and they open the boot to bring out the girl they grabbed. Are they serious?

A girl in the boot is an unpredictable factor outside your field of vision and beyond your reach. She could scream at a bad time, she could call someone with a phone hidden in her underwear, she could try to kill herself, all this and you can't put a knife to her throat to keep her quiet. I have a simple rule: Dead bodies go in the boot, troublemakers sit up front with us. And you can call me afraid, but I wouldn't feel comfortable in a car with three guns. How would they even play it off if they ran into an army checkpoint? "Officer, we are just five huge innocent guys, wearing singlets and sunglasses... at night. We are not suspicious at all." Where would they even hide the guns? They would be shot dead before their car even rolls to a stop.

Worst case scenario, the girl would be armed with long nails and tears. Yes, tears, they always cry and they always beg.

"Please sah, I will do anything you want, please."

Yes, you will. You will do everything we want. Even if I don't let you go.

The ones that beg are not too bad, they are predictable because they still have hope. They cry, but they behave themselves because they think it will help, like they will get time off for good behaviour. Once while we were cruising, before we picked up a passenger, I saw this quote in the book I was reading: "I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing." I thought it was appropriate and underlined it. Later on the way home when our passenger that day started crying and begging, I considered reciting the quote, but that would have just been cruel. This isn't a film.

The girls that give up are the worst. Sometimes they snap, try to jump out of the car, try to break the windows with their heads or hands. They don't even try to escape anymore, they use their nails, their teeth, they just want to get blood on the upholstery, or scar one of us. If it gets too bad, we pull over to the side of the road. Moshood waits in the car and plays the impatient driver. Anita and I pretend to pee, while Sam drags the passenger into the bushes. When they come back, she is usually mellow. The first time this happened, I asked Moshood to go with him, in case she tried to escape. Sam shook his head, laughing like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard and dragged her off alone.

It has been two months since the last girl disappeared. She was 17, and probably a virgin. The man we call Chief verified later that she was, and we got an extra bonus. Tonight, the four of us are riding around together again, if only we would get that lucky.

EVERYTHING GOOD COMES FROM ABROAD

2011-08-08T22:19:00.009+01:00

This is one of those "works in progress", though it hasn't progressed very far. It's one of my more recent pieces, and even though it has that title (which I've been itching to use for a while now) I know not where it's going, really, so ask me not. Just enjoy!

When I asked my mother why she wanted me to marry an oyibo she said it was because they were better; they just were. See all the things they’d brought to us: aeroplanes, vaccines, GSM, the Internet, God. Everything good came from abroad. Oyibo people were more beautiful too. And see the way they spoke… shiriri shiriri. Hadn’t I seen Diamond's daughter, the way she spoke through her nose like one of them; the way she had milky skin and curly hair, just like one of them? And Diamond wasn’t even as beautiful as I was. I was too good a child to remind Mama that Diamond had sold herself to expatriates, not that she would have cared. Diamond had gotten married to the highest bidder like I had known she would; a Wilhelm from Germany, who worked with Total. Mama wasn’t there when Diamond came and told me all the things she had to do to keep her oyibo happy. Diamond had just shrugged. She’d known before she married him that he was a pervert. She only had to bury herself in the luxury he provided; there was no need to resurrect her shame that was long dead and buried.

But me I wasn’t like Diamond. If mama knew the right words she’d call me an idealist; a dreamer; one who walked around with her head in the clouds. Wasn’t I the one who had sworn as a child that I’d grow up to be a ballerina and dance the great stages of the world? When everyone said to be realistic, a ballerina would die of hunger in Nigeria, wasn’t it me who said, okay I’d be an astronaut instead. Wasn’t it me who, when Papa ran away with our neighbour’s wife, said they would surely be back; they were only playing. Thirteen years after Papa had left there was no ‘gotcha!’ and I no longer wanted to be a ballerina or an astronaut. I wanted to sing. I wanted to summon tears and greatness from the hearts of men, stretching forth my voice to touch their souls. And I could; I knew I could. Everywhere I went they said it: I had It.

But that didn’t matter, Mama said; not with people like us. After all she had had gifts too, and where had they got her? All I needed was to find a good man and settle down. Why did I think she was struggling to put me through school? A polytechnic degree would increase my worth in the eyes of potential suitors. And any suitor worth anything had to be from Abroad; a white person preferably, but she could settle for Asian or black American, only they would have to be very rich. She wasn’t giving out her precious daughter to any person whose pocket was not visibly strained from holding all their money.

Mama knew it wouldn’t happen by chance, this wish for her daughter to marry well, and so she made her plans. If Mama knew the right English she would have called herself a strategist. When I was in year two, Mama, who had never regarded my singing as anything worthy of her time, or mine for that matter, had come up with, like a magician pulling tricks from a hat, a "friend" who owned a bar on the island where expatriates frequented. This friend had had a falling out with the person who used to sing at her bar and needed a replacement like she needed air. I was not there, but I could see the way Mama’s eyes lit up when she heard this; see with her the wedding pictures that flashed through her mind. I was glad to sing at the bar, but for different reasons. In the dreams that I had I was discovered, not by some shriveled oil worker, but by a famous producer or talent scout who would fall for my voice.

We hadn't known it then, but neither of us would get our wish.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

2011-07-22T21:23:00.000+01:00

These are the things that I am thankful for this past week:

- for journey mercies

- for my laptop, so I can do a bit of work and better keep in touch while I am away

- for shawls and sweaters

- for people that can be missed

LESSONS FROM THE FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP

2011-07-13T12:32:00.000+01:00

Today I will be sharing some lessons from the Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop, written by Gboyega Otolorin, a fellow participant. My blog posts on the workshop have been accused of being too much of a personal account, like a diary (which was actually my intention). Anyway, for those looking to learn what we did, Gboyega’s summary should be quite helpful and it’s posted below with his permission.

Enjoy.

Hey guys, I was scanning my workshop notes and I thought ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if someone summarized the main bits and pieces of writing wisdom we received during those miraculous ten days?' So, that’s what I did. Started with Chimamanda; summaries of Binyavanga, Adewale, Tash and Faith will come later. These are the points I got. Wrote them down the way I understood them. If there’s something I missed or misinterpreted, please feel free to mention it.

Alright! This is for you, my fellow voyagers on the seas of linguistic playfulness, from Gboyega Otolorin, forever and always, in the eternal sense!

HOW AN AMATEUR WRITER CAN MAKE HIS WORK LESS HORRIBLE (VOL. 1)

From Chimamanda Adichie:

One: Chimamanda’s central dogma: Show, don’t tell. Show, don’t tell. SHOW, DON’T TELL. Show us what the character is feeling. Don’t tell us. Showing is more effective in conveying emotional truth than telling.

Two: Avoid clichés. Don’t use clichéd plots, storylines, expressions, sentences. Try as much as possible to create something original. Avoid writing thrillers like James HadleyChase. Avoid writing romance that feels like Mills & Boon. Avoid any story that reminds you of Nollywood.

Three: Include SIGNIFICANT details. Details make your story believable. Let your reader be able to imagine the scene as clearly as you saw it. However, never include TOO MANY details. It shows a lack of confidence in your own skills as a writer. Don’t compensate for insecurity by overdoing it. Less is more. Significant detail.

Four: Art is to be enjoyed. We write because we want to be read and appreciated. Otherwise, we would just finish our pieces and lock them up in our drawers at home. If we want our writing to be read and enjoyed, our writing must be comprehensible! Comprehension is KEY. The reader MUST be able to connect to what we are saying.

Five: When writing about religion, be honest. Write something that both believers and non-believers can relate to. Don’t preach the converted.

Six: Be real. Say it like it is. Don’t get all ‘writer-y’ and try to decorate simple sentences with stylish language. Don’t let truck drivers speak like university graduates. Use pidgin and local languages where necessary so your characters are believable. However, if you’re writing for an international audience, use local details and language in a way that doesn’t leave readers confused. But you shouldn’t write local language and then translate side-by-side e.g. “Mo ti n bo,” Jumoke said (“I’m on my way,” Jumoke said). Let the local language be in the middle of the speech, in a way that the international/non-local reader can guess at the meaning from the context.

Seven: Consistency. The language of your work should be consistent. Chimamanda said ‘a story tells you how to read it’. The way we read dreamers and fable-tellers like Ben Okri and Amos Tutuola is different from the way we read realists like Chinua Achebe. The language of our work must be consistent.

Eight: If you’re writing about a familiar subject e.g. love, domestic abuse, marriage, sibling rivalry, drug abuse e.t.c, look for a fresh approach or a new angle. Again, avoid clichés. Again, avoid Nollywood.

Nine: On style. Style is good. It is good to play with language, to be ‘linguistically playful’. Stylish language and clever turns of phrase delight readers and they are a major part of the pleasure we get from reading. Your style is part of what constitutes your ‘voice’ as a writer. It’s how people can pick up your book and immediately know you wrote it. However, too much style gets in the way of the story and can distract the reader. Also, making every sentence clever and every paragraph ‘an intricate work of art’ can signal a lack of confidence in yourself.

Ten: The most prescribed rule of writing: Write what you know. Chimamanda said: Don’t write what you don’t know. Make sure that if you’re going to write about something, you’ve studied it and done your research appropriately so that when you write about it, everything feels real and tangible. For example, if you’re going to write about prostitutes, it would be a good idea to interview a few. Just like Chika Unigwe did with ‘On Black Sister’s Street’.

Eleven: The Hating-Your-Own-Work rule. Chimamanda called writing ‘a pathetic way of seeking validation’ and it is true. The only way to feel good as a writer is when other talented people (i.e. other writers/discerning readers) tell you your work is worthy. But how do we deal with hating our own work? First, realize that uncertainty is a good thing. When you stop feeling jittery about your work, you become smug. And being smug makes you write trash. Also, find gifted people who can critique your work. Not your close friends or family members, but people who you know can help make your writing better. They may be writers themselves, or readers, or teachers; anyone you know who can tell the difference between Mills & Boon and Shakespeare. Writer’s workshops and online forums are a good place to find such people. The more positive responses you get, the more your confidence grows. If you keep getting negative feedback, ask what you’re doing wrong, and fix it. Whatever happens, keep writing and never believe that your work is perfect. There is no perfect writer. Everyone is a work in progress.

Twelve: The Unbreakable Rule: Read. Read. Read. A writer can never read enough. The only way to be a good writer is to read. There is no school for professional writers. There is no workshop or degree programme or certification. There is only reading. We are professional writers only because we write. Not because we have published anything or received any prizes but because we write. And the only way to write well is to read. The simple prescription we got from the workshop was thirty books a year. But for a good professional writer, it should be one a week, fifty-two books a year. Or more if you can. You cannot be a good writer if you do not read. A writer can never read enough.

Thirteen: The Thirteenth Commandment: When you know the rules, you can break them. There is no rule of writing that cannot be broken. Except for the Reading Rule; a writer MUST read. But you can break all the others. Just make sure that in breaking a rule, you are achieving something uniquely creative and interesting. Almost all of the best writers have broken rules at one point or another. As long as the rule-breaking doesn’t turn the story to trash, then go ahead.

THANKFUL SATURDAY

2011-07-11T13:48:00.000+01:00

These are the things I am thankful for this past week:

- for shoes that won’t go bad after I wade through Ikoyi floods in them.

- for red cabs

- for friends to laugh with

- for good music

- for people who believe in us

LASMOCK TIMES: 22 WAYS TO BE A FOOD NINJA

2011-07-07T22:04:00.000+01:00

Image from here

If you attended a boarding school—particularly a rugged one like my very own alma mater—you probably know its own version of what we at LASMOCK liked to call food ninjas. To be a food ninja was no small matter. You had to have serious mind and adhere strictly to the food ninja code of honour. But the good thing was once a food ninja, always a food ninja. You could never live it down. The food ninjas—and I mean the proud and proper ones, not the ones in denial—lived a life of utter liberation. They had no social obligations (re: levels) to live up to. They roamed the halls and classrooms of the school, free in their wild, uninhibited love for food, even good old LASMOCK food.

I cannot even begin to tell you all the things that a food ninja was, and perhaps still is, but I can tell you 22 ways to be an authentic LASMOCK food ninja.

1. Do admit that you can find your way to the dining hall without the aid of GPS.

2. Do not at any time be found without your ninja tools (cutlery of any form) on your person. Take the motto of the scouts to heart.

3. Do recite the food timetable with 100% accuracy whenever called upon, even if woken from the velvety depths of sleep at 2 a.m.

4. Do not hesitate to say stuff like ‘why shouldn’t I go for food? After all my parents paid for it!’ with a straight face.

5. When forced by teachers—who suddenly realize they have nothing better to do with their time—to go to the dining hall and ‘eat your parents’ money’, do not shuffle with pained reluctance to the dining hall, your face clearly showing how much you detest such degrading treatment.

6. Do not miss making an appearance at the dining hall every day, including resumption, visiting and vacation days.

7. Do proudly display your ‘food badges’ (food stains on your clothes) as battle scars.

8. Do not forget to boast about your *mazzing exploits in the dining hall.

9. Do your damndest to get appointed a food prefect or, if you find that too ambitious or unattainable, a table captain.

10. Do be a junior student. All juniors get automatic food ninja status.

11. Do not bother to hide the sheer joy that fills your heart at the sound of every siren signalling meal times.

12. Do be found in the vicinity of the dining hall at every meal time.

13. Do finish your food in time for the end of meal prayers every time.

14. Do respond to dining hall prayers every time. Anything louder than a barely audible whisper would suffice.

15. Do not be afraid to admit that Friday is your favourite day of the week only because they serve rice and turkey.

16. Do not try to mask Thursday’s fufu and fish fragrance with perfume or body spray when it clings to your clothes after the meal.

17. Do line up in front of the dining hall for eba, eko, beans, or pap and akara—the undesirables—with your ninja tools raised sky high cos you just don’t care.

18. Do not be slow to defend any suspected or confirmed food ninjas from yabis.

19. Do bone up and form not sending when members of the opposite sex from your class see you going into the dining hall (note: this only applies to senior students).

20. Do ensure that the entire kitchen staff knows you by name.

21. Do eat school meals without finding anything to complain about.

22. Do agree with the school authorities, and say so at every conceivable opportunity, that attendance at the dining hall should be mandatory for all students.

*‘Mazz’ is short for massacre and it means to rush for food, usually spilling a lot in the process.

THANKFUL SATURDAY (on Monday)

2011-07-04T09:49:00.002+01:00

These are the things I am thankful for this past week:

- for the Farafina Trust workshop, and all the people that helped make it happen.

- for God’s protection as I zoomed all around the Island on okadas.

- for the fact that rain did not beat me this week.

- for free rides, and the people that gave them.

- for my baby niece and nephew being in good health.

- for all the friends I made and all the things I learned at the Farafina Trust workshop.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: THE FINALE

2011-07-04T09:46:00.002+01:00

The Farafina Trust literary evening was a fitting end to such a wonderful workshop. It held at Eko Hotels and we had dinner after at Protea on Awolowo Road. We had Jumoke Verrissimo, Odia Ofeimun, Eghosa Imasuen, Tash Aw, Binyavanga Wainaina (who showed up with his head and beard green, don’t ask me why) and Faith Adiele read from their work. And there was a performance by Waje. All in all, a great evening.

I didn’t cry—thank God—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like it. After spending ten days with nineteen other people I shared something in common with, it was kind of sad parting. There are some of us I know I’ll probably never see again. Thankfully, there are others I know I will see again. It’s amazing how well we all got along, and I believe that we will follow each others’ lives as closely as we can, thank God for email and blogs and facebook.

Here’s to all of you.

Pemi Aguda – the undisputed queen of flash fiction, I remain loyal.

Tahirah Abdulazeez – the one with the very rich imagination (hope you said a proper goodbye to Casper, or whatever his name was), and the interesting face.

Doris Ogale – Miss Sunshine. It was always such a pleasure reading her work.

Elnathan John – the one who made us laugh till we cried with his freakishly accurate impressions. The same one who made us cringe with his very apt critiques. The one of great insight.

Gboyega Otolorin – the one who brought us joy with his stories and his personality.

Olumide Owoo – the one with the deeply insightful stories and calm presence.

Emezuom Nworgu – the ‘uncle’ of the class, with the wise, gentle voice.

Chinyere Obi-Obasi – the ‘mummy’ of the class; passionate, unpretentious and committed to her writing.

Irene – the one with the infectious laugh and truthful stories.

Buchi Nduka – the bubbly one who wrote the daring pieces.

Nkem Awachie – her stories were beautifully grounded and very easy to relate with.

Osemhen Akhibi – she of the beautiful smile and even more beautiful stories.

Glory Edozien – our drama queen; her voice is unmistakably hers.

Lauri Kubuitsile – our Caine woman. I deeply admire her way with words.

Wame Molefhe – the quiet one. Wame has a depth and mystique that always find their way into her writing, to the reader’s pleasure.

Tolu Talabi – he of great mischief and twinkling eyes. His writing is as quirky as he is and I can tell we will be good friends.

Gimba Kakanda – the one with linguistic playfulness and philistinical approaches. I have my eye on you.

Funke Ogundimu – the one with the voice of a sage. Funke’s writing has an understated but distinct and almost surreal flavour.

Morenike Singer – the warm and ever glamourous Miss Singer; her writing has a depth and honesty that is hard to miss.

It was an honour to meet and get to know all you beautiful people.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 9

2011-07-02T09:31:00.001+01:00

Today’s the last day of the workshop proper—tomorrow will be a book reading and some other stuff—and I’m feeling sad that it’s come to an end, so I decide to go in much earlier than the 11 a.m. that we are supposed to start today. Derica (the girl who reminds me of myself) comes in some minutes after and we get to talking. The workshop starts quite late today cos the others are late getting in from the hotel.

I sit next to Tolu (whom I hereby nickname Tolz) again today and it was fun.

Today’s workshop started with Tash Aw, a Malaysian writer. He didn’t want us to introduce ourselves by our names, but he told us to say one thing that was true about ourselves and one thing that wasn’t true and let the class guess which was which. From the things each of us said, and from the reaction of others to these things, he taught us some useful tricks in writing both fiction and nonfiction. I liked Tash and wish we’d been able to have more time with him.

After a nice lunch, Faith Adiele came on. She taught us about creative nonfiction and we did a few exercises in class which she used to teach us. We did one where we had to write down in columns things we remembered and didn’t remember about our childhood. We also did one where we mapped our homes or neighbourhoods and told our partners about the memories we had growing up. This was to show us possible sources of stories for memoir pieces. It was quite an interesting time today.

After class Elnathan and Nkem did impressions. That was hilarious. Elnathan refused to do Chimamanda sha, I don’t know why.

After we left the workshop, we went to the hotel with the guys. It was nice. A lot of books were signed and we ate popcorn and shawarma and gizzard. And I took movies from Tolz's hard drive.

I suspect there might be tears tomorrow when we finally have to leave.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 8

2011-06-30T22:28:00.001+01:00

I’ll start today’s post with Tolu again, but this time not because he asked me to. I sat beside him at the workshop today for the first time and it was really fun. We gisted quite a bit.

It wasn’t one of my best days today. First the workshop started late, and then Binyavanga just seemed to talk the day away. He’s a funny guy, and quite entertaining, but sometimes I’d find myself lost trying to trace the train of discussion that had brought us to a certain point. Tolu was quite helpful. When lunch time came it was a great relief for me. Just before lunch, Iheoma (a former workshop participant who’s on his way to great things and who Chimamanda is really impressed with) came in with Jide (another former workshop participant) and they were with us until the end, critiquing the assignments with Binyavanga.

After lunch assignments from some more of us were read. I didn’t read mine. I don’t think my piece covers the assignment well. Anyway…

Chimamanda came in towards the end. We took some pictures and she asked me about my work with Farafina. I followed the guys to the hotel where they were staying, and Tolu and I gisted some more on the bus.

I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day. Sob.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 7

2011-06-29T22:48:00.000+01:00

I will start today’s post with our ‘class captain’, Tolu. He came to me today and said, “Six whole days and not even one mention on your blog.” Or something like that. So, Tolu, here’s to you. And thanks for reading.

We started today taking pictures as we waited for the session to start. Chimamanda came in and we talked—I mostly listened—until Binyavanga came.

How to describe Binyavanga. He’s so… jolly! I mean, like, incredibly. He has these sparkly, mischievous eyes, and he talks fast, like he can’t wait to get all those words out. He has a sense of humour and gisted us about Kenyan politics in the most colourful manner. He asked us to introduce ourselves and the introduction kept veering off into other subjects, like the origin of the Ebiras, like women who beat their men (lol), like how at writing workshops in Nigeria people tend to take critique less personal (I’d told him about my ‘Blame it on a Yellow Dress’ and how I no longer thought it was such a gem). That introduction went on for like an hour!

Binyavanga uses the ‘f’ word and says shit a lot. He puts us at ease and we laugh quite a bit. When he first walked in with his shaved head, I was like, “Oh, so from where did I get the impression that he wore his hair in dreadlocks? Was that someone else?” Then he told us the story of how he lost his hair.

Three stories, by Osemhen, Wame and Tahirah, were ‘workshopped’ today, and we got an assignment, which I am yet to do and which I'm not completely sure I understand. Tomorrow we continue with Binyavanga.

Funny, at my table today we discussed—among other things—shyness versus quietness, and who we thought was shy or not. Olumide, our ever cool lawyer, says he’s shy, and I say I think he’s just quiet. They all agree I’m not shy, which I think is a testimony as to how I’ve learnt to keep the shyness in check. I’m quite pleased.

And then Olumide says, “No, she’s not shy; she just thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

And I’m like no, I don’t! Gosh!

I hope I've not been going about rubbing people the wrong way.

Better go do my assignment so I can have something to read tomorrow.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 6

2011-06-28T21:47:00.000+01:00

We continued with Adewale Maja Pearse today. Oh, and I was able to complete my assignment. It was two paragraphs and about six lines long. We read out our assignments. Some were short and punchy, others made us go awwww (like mine). Many were funny, and others were kind of like rants (like Glory’s). But they were all fun.

There was a lady who came to watch today, and I sat next to her at lunch. I told her that when I first saw her she reminded me of myself. Tahirah thought so too. She looks much younger than her 24, she’s light skinned and soft spoken like me, and she seems to have that same inner smile going that I think (and have been told) I have. We chatted a bit.

After Mr. Maja Pearse was done, Chimamanda told us her publishing story. I learned two important things: persistence, educate yourself (and I’m not talking about classroom education here), and believe in yourself. Okay, that’s three. Her story helped me see, even though I’ve always known it, that stories like hers don’t happen by magic. It was the years she spent working, in obscurity, that have earned her the place she has now. Of course, that doesn’t mean she won’t have to work hard anymore, but you know what I mean.

Oh, I got my Half of a Yellow Sun signed today.

Tomorrow we will be having Binyavanga Wainaina teach us. Should be fun.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 5

2011-06-28T12:12:00.001+01:00

Today we learnt about nonfiction from Adewale Maja Pearse. I dunno… didn’t find today quite as interesting as the other days. But I did get my Purple Hibiscus and The Thing around Your Neck signed by Chimamanda. Half of a Yellow Sun tomorrow.

Oh, and we had a nice lunch.

Our writing assignment for today is to write about today at the workshop. I don’t feel very inspired on the subject. Hope I can get something done.

We finished early today, compared to the other days, and some of us went out for drinks. It was fun.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 4

2011-06-27T14:06:00.000+01:00

We started at 1 p.m. today and finished at about seven. As always, I had a blast, even though it was one of my more quiet days. Our workshop entries were ‘workshopped’ today, which basically means we were given hints and tips and suggestions on how to make those stories better.

Then we had a nice lunch.

And after that, we read our assignments from yesterday, the one that had to start with ‘my mother never…’ For me, so far, that was the toughest one to do, and I’m not really sure why since it allows for so much freedom. At first I thought I’d write something that was actually about my mother. But then I didn’t. For something that was so hard to write I think I did okay in the end.

I find it funny that these past days, with the workshop assignments, I’ve never gone to bed without doing them, even though I’m extremely tired at the end of every day. It just makes me think of how, before the workshop, I’d get home from work usually at past six, go through my routine and when it’s time to write I think, ‘I’m too tired’. If nothing else, this workshop has made me see that if I say I really want to write something every day, I can. Discipline is the word. I know external motivation has always seemed to work better for me, but seriously…

At the workshop today I thought it quite tragic that I could never capture everything. Many of the things that never find their way here are some of the most interesting things for me about this experience. Like how Elnathan does the best impressions ever and has everyone in stitches. Like how Gimba is sort of the one everybody likes to pick on, in a good natured way, because he says stuff like ‘linguistic playfulness’ and ‘mechanical sexiness’. Like how Morenike is so stylish and I want to be like her when I grow up, but I just don’t care enough. Like Chimamanda’s subtle sense of humour. Like how twenty writers would take the same assignment and build twenty different worlds out of it, each one distinct and unmistakable. These are some of the things I never want to forget.

It’s just day four, but I’m already thinking, I don’t want this to end.

THANKFUL SATURDAY

2011-06-26T13:18:00.002+01:00

These are some of the things I am thankful for this week.

-for not getting beaten by rain yesterday. I like to think God held the rain a bit just for me.

-for the gift of writing, which I’ve always been grateful for, but even more so now.

-for the people who believe in me.

-for having the privilege of being around the awesome writers at the Farafina workshop.

-for free rides, and how they can come with the most impeccable timing.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 3

2011-06-26T13:17:00.000+01:00

The session today ended really late today, even later than yesterday. I think we left around past seven. I was hoping Chimamanda wouldn’t give us a writing exercise for tomorrow. Tough luck. We’re to write a one page piece starting with the words ‘my mother never…’

Today was a good day. I got an applause for my dialogue exercise, and a book from Chimamanda too—Jumpha Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth. Wame also got a book. Our pieces were voted the favourites for today.

Six stories were ‘workshopped’ today, and the writers got some great tips on how to improve their pieces. My story is one of those that will be done tomorrow. Yes, we have a session tomorrow, Sunday, too. It starts at one.

More tomorrow.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 2

2011-06-24T22:46:00.000+01:00

I took a jacket with me today.

When I’d left the house I knew it would rain. Soon. All the way to V/I on the bike, even as the first tiny drops fell, all I kept saying in my head was, ‘rain cannot beat me today. Lord, please hold the rain.’ And He did. Barely minutes after I walked into the hall it really started to rain. It rained almost all day.

Anyway, the workshop.

Today was great. We got a stipend—something I think none of us had been expecting. Just being there was good enough. While I was settling in to finish the reading assignments before we started I kept hoping I would have enough energy to participate and enjoy myself today. I'd stayed up till about 2 a.m. doing the writing assignments. I would start writing a particular story, get about one quarter of the way and change my mind. I think I did this three times before I finally got it. The assignment was to write about an object, either using it as a sort of platform for time shifting in the story, or as the subject of the piece itself. I needn't have worried about energy, though: I was fine all day.

The reading of the assignments was really nice. That was the highlight of my day. Elnathan made an impression with his reading skills. I liked his story, but what I liked even more was the way he read it, complete with the South African accent. Osemhen’s story was really sweet and taught me something about the Ishan tradition. Apparently, whenever an Ishan child is born, wherever they may be, the placenta is cut off and taken to the child’s hometown and buried. On the spot where it’s buried, a tree is planted; orange for girl children, mango for boys. Interesting.

Pemi worked her flash fiction magic again. Amazing. Gboyega’s story made me laugh till I cried. It was about farts and a boy on a danfo bus. Hilarious. Some stories got an applause after they were read. Mine was one of those. I was really pleased. And Olumide and Chimamanda showed me some things I could do to make it even better. Chimamanda said she really liked it. I'm doing happy dance in my head.

Also had a nice lunch today.

The workshop ran really long today. We left some minutes after six. I got a ride to Ikoyi with Glory. Tomorrow we start at 12 noon because of environmental. We have nine pieces to read before tomorrow. One piece to write. As part of the activities for tomorrow we will be ‘workshopping’ the entries we sent in, or whatever alternatives we would prefer to use. The writing exercise is on dialogue, what I consider my Achilles heel as far as writing is concerned. Right now I have no clue what I shall write. Should be fun!

Oh, note to self: take a shawl tomorrow, even with the jacket. For your feet.

FARAFINA TRUST WORKSHOP: DAY 1

2011-06-23T19:11:00.001+01:00

First, I have to warn that this post will be rambling. We’ve just finished the session for today and I’m pretty tired, but I’d said I’d blog about it every day for the duration of the workshop, and this is me doing that. And I have to do it quick so I can go do the reading and writing assignments. I’m not home yet cos I know if I go home I won’t get to do all I should before this day is over. So here goes.

Today was fun for me. I enjoyed every bit of the workshop—well, apart from the fact that I was freezing in there. Note to self: wear something warmer tomorrow.

Getting to the venue, I can’t really define my reaction cos I hadn’t known what to expect in the first place. Before the end of the day though, I’d gotten a bit familiar with the other participants there, and I can already pick out some interesting characters. It was nice meeting Pemi Aguda of the Afrosays fame. My first impression is of a quiet, unassuming person. But I think that a lot probably goes on inside her head, beneath the surface—I have read her work. And she’s an amazing writer, I must say. She writes the most incredible flash fiction pieces; and I think it’s a beautiful thing, that ability to pack so much into so few words.

There was also Elnathan John, the official class clown and all-round troublemaker (and I say this with love, Elnathan, just in case you ever read this). What I like about Elnathan, apart from his sense of humour, is his eloquence. He says some really deep stuff, and he does this so effortlessly. I might write some deep stuff, but anyone that knows me knows that expressing myself through the spoken word is not my strong suit. And then there was Onyebuchi. I like her. She seems fun and bubbly. And she likes to have her picture taken. There was Gimba, who likes “linguistic playfulness”, and thinks that simplicity in writing is overrated. We all had a good time poking fun at him, but he’s entitled to his opinions. There was Laurie from Botswana, and from some of the exercises we did today, I can tell she writes beautifully. There was Gboyega, and he strikes me as someone who’s quietly confident. There was Chinyere, the mom and banker who wakes up every morning at two a.m. to write. I want to be like her when I grow up. Talk about dedication! There was Gloria Edozien, who writes for Bella Naija. I’ve read her work on the site, so I wasn’t surprised she did so well today. There was the “Uncle” of the class (Mr. Emezuom), the oldest one among us, who became the inspiration for Onyebuchi’s piece for one of the writing assignments.

And hey, there was Chimamanda, who I’m meeting for the first time. She has such insight into the writing process, and she’s a discerning reader too. How does one ever get to be (or become?) that way? And she’s really pretty too. I shall get a picture taken with her before this workshop is over.

Okay, now to the activities. We did quite some reading, eight pieces in all and of varying lengths, and we have more to read in preparation for tomorrow. We discussed the pieces and what we liked or didn’t like; what worked or didn’t work for us, and we just basically shared our opinions on stuff. We did two assignments in class; one was to describe the room we were in, and the other was to write something on beauty without using the word ‘beauty’ or any of its synonyms.

We had a nice buffet-style lunch, and good conversation to go with it.

There’s a lot that happened that I won’t get to put on here cos I’m pretty tired and need to get started on the assignments. But I had a great time and have learnt quite a lot already.

Day two, here I come.

THANKFUL SATURDAY

2011-06-18T21:50:00.000+01:00

Following Daphne Gray-Grant’s bonus tip on becoming a better blogger (the one that says to find blogs you admire and imitate the heck out of them), I’m imitating Good Naija Girl’s ‘thankful’ posts and starting a weekly ‘thankful Saturday’ series, where I will say the things that happened within the week that I am thankful for. Gratitude is a good thing, and personally, it helps me remember that no matter how bad things might seem, they could always be worse. It’s also a good cure for depression, so if you’re feeling down you might want to try counting your blessings – first of which is that you have blessings to count in the first place. And for me, if nothing else, the series would help me stick to my rule of at least one post a week.

Anyway, here goes my first ‘thankful Saturday’ post.

I am thankful:

- for the opportunity to participate in the Farafina Trust creative writing workshop. I am really looking forward to the experience.

- for LASTMA forgiving my friend and I for holding up traffic while we bought plantain chips on Kingsway Road (cringe). Thanks, guys!

- for deliverance from the Nigerian police (did someone call them my friend?), who don’t quite know the law they’re supposed to be enforcing. Long story. My friend and colleague let me drive us home from work on Tuesday. Since I've just recently finished my driving school programme and am not quite confident enough yet to drive without it – and since I haven’t gotten my license yet – we put up my ‘L’ signs. The law permits a learner, with a learners permit, to drive certain types of vehicles with the ‘L’ signs clearly visible, and with a licensed driver beside him/her. My friend has her license. Okay. We were approaching Dolphin Estate when this policeman stopped us and started asking us silly questions. We presented our learner’s permit and driver’s license respectively, but the man didn’t even read the permit. He went ahead to say that as long as I was done with my lessons I wasn’t supposed to put up the ‘L’ signs, except if the driving school instructor was beside me (imagine that!). He started making noise about paying fines, but we were able to leave without parting with any money or coming to any harm. Considering that Naija policemen have shot people for much less, I consider this this something to be thankful for.

- for the strength to have consistently said my prayers and read my Bible this week.

- for jeans. And for the place I work, where I can wear them all week.

- for peace, in spite of some not-quite-resolved issues.

- for good laughs, and the people that provide them.

So, that's my list. What are you thankful for in the past week?

I GOT IN!

2011-06-16T19:09:00.003+01:00

Good news. I got accepted to attend the Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop. I'm really excited (I will get to meet Chimamanda! Yay!), especially since I wasn't able to attend either of the last two sessions - even though I was accepted - because I was doing my youth service in Onitsha and I couldn't make the trip to Lagos.

It will be a wonderful experience and I'm looking forward to it. The workshop runs from 23 June to 2 July, and I shall be blogging about my experiences - daily, if possible. Enjoy. I know I will.

NAIJA BLOG AWARDS

2011-06-13T16:00:00.000+01:00

I can't believe I'm just hearing about this. Unfortunately, nominations end today. Anyhow, I've gone on the site and put up my nominees. You still have a few hours to do so if you haven't, so go a-nominating.

And I must say, the guys at Naija blog awards are doing a great job.

BECOMING A BETTER BLOGGER

2011-06-09T13:39:00.007+01:00

Image from here

I was thinking of what I could share today, and I remembered this writing newsletter I subscribe to. I thought I'd share Daphne Gray Grant's seven steps to becoming a better blogger. I found it quite useful, though I'm not quite there yet. Oh well, baby steps.

1) Post regularly. Some people say you need to post three times a week, others say daily. My original plan for my blog was to start posting five days a week. I've changed my mind since becoming an RSS-feed reader. (If you have no idea how to use an RSS-feed reader, be sure to check out this wonderful video-based tutorial by Colleen Wainwright.) I'm easily overwhelmed and I've unsubscribed from several bloggers who publish good information—just too much of it! As well, I'm mindful that it's better to start small and work your way up rather than start big and end with a whimper. My plan is to start by posting twice a week. I think once a week is the bare minimum.

[Me I know I'm guilty of this one. My plan was to post once a week at the very least. Sigh. I think part of the reason is that I'm not writing as much as I should be. I shall do better!]

2) Be brief. There is more information than there is time to read it. I have little time for bloggers who regularly go beyond 750 words (especially if they do it five days a week). Have they not heard of editing, I ask? More often, I think, bloggers should aim for a concise 350-500 words with an occasional foray into the land of 750. Better to push readers away from the table when they still want more rather than forcing them to be uncomfortably full.

[Hmmm. Some of my posts are over 750 words. But those are just the fiction posts, I promise.]

3) Have a point. Too many bloggers ramble on about nothing of import. Remember, your blog should have a purpose and each entry should support it. If only your friends and your mother are interested, you have a problem.

[This blog doesn't necessarily have one point, but I believe every post does have a point.]

4) Tell stories. When you read my newsletter you typically get lots of information about my husband, my kids and thinly veiled accounts of my clients. I'm not saying I'm fascinating. But I do know some people who are and I hope they help make my columns more interesting. Stories have a natural beginning, middle and ending—and they're designed so that listeners are eager to know what happens next. You can harness that enthusiasm to help impel readers through your writing.

[I concur, he he.]

5) Add a photo to each post. I know, this isn't a writing tip—it's a bit of graphic advice. But photos grab the eye, create mood and provide some relief from all the black bits of type floating on the page. Use Flickr to get some photos for yourself at no charge. (Just be sure to attribute the photographer.)

[Okay, this sure makes sense. I plead guilty to using some photos without attributing to the photographer. Bad Uche!]

6) Make your entry scannable. It's often been said that people don't READ the Internet; they scan it. You can make your blog more interesting and more engaging to readers with some boldface type, sub-headlines and by adding numbered lists (as I have in this newsletter) or bullets. Visual tricks aren't just for amusement—they work!

7) Put a darn good headline on the sucker. Headlines are almost always written last, usually in a hurry. Doesn't it seem strange to you that a blogger might spend 45 minutes or longer labouring over an entry and then devote only 15 seconds to dashing off a headline? It seems nonsensical to me (and yet I'm sometimes guilty of doing exactly that.) Be aware that a good headline might not only persuade someone to read your blog entry—a bad one can also convince them to ignore it. Ensure you headline says what the article is about (don't try to be too cute or coy) and try to work in a verb.

[Sound advice. I think some of my headlines could use a little pizzaz.]

Finally, (let's call this the bonus tip), read lots of blogs and find one you really like. Then imitate the heck out of it! Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

[Lol.]

- Daphne Gray-Grant is a writing and editing coach and the author of the popular book, 8½ Steps to Writing Faster, Better. She offers a brief and free weekly newsletter on her website. Subscribe by going to the Publication Coach.

I'M AN AUNTY... AGAIN!

2011-06-05T15:52:00.004+01:00

Image from here

This time it's a girl, and from another sister. She's so tiny, she feels like she could break in your arms.

Welcome to the world, Isabella. A blessed and beautiful life awaits you.

WE ARE NIGERIANS

2011-05-27T11:43:00.002+01:00

It's been a busy couple of months at work; but now, seeing the result of all that effort, it sure feels good. We'd been working on a textbook series for primary school civics, and now we're all but done. At least on our end. We're at the printing stage now. It kind of reminds me of my sisters' (one had her baby a few months ago, and the other we expect to have hers any day now) pregnancy experiences. With all the wahala that they experienced - swollen noses, added weight, changed complexions, morning sickness, swollen feet, constipation, etc etc - I find myself viewing the whole pregnancy and childbirth experience with trepidation. My sister assures me that when I hold the child (yep, the same one for which I went through all the wahala) in my arms, I will find it all worth it. Well, I sure hope so.

Anyway, working on the books has been sort of like a pregnancy experience, although, thankfully, the 'wahala' we went through had nothing to do with alterations to my body parts. And seeing the results (books one to three of the six-book series are out already), I can say it was worth it. It definitely feels good to see my name on a book for the first time (I didn't write it, though, so my name's not on the cover. But that will happen.).

So here's presenting the latest from Farafina Educational: We Are Nigerians: Civics and History for Primary Schools. The books have lovely illustrations that would appeal to kids, and simple, age-appropriate language that they can easily grasp. The exercises in the books are also very fun and engaging - from puzzles, mazes and matching exercises to "look at this" and "critical thinking" exercises, which sharpen the childrens' reasoning skills - and are guaranteed to get the children to enjoy the learning process. The books also teach children about Nigerian history and contemporary issues in Nigeria, without ignoring the many issues that we have as a nation; and it also goes ahead to teach students the little things they can do to bring about the positive change we desire for Nigeria.

Below are the e-flyers, featuring some characters from the book.

I dare say that the books are amazing. And I should know; a whole lot of work went into them. So parents, teachers, school owners, everyone, let's go book shopping!

SEEMINGLY RANDOM

2011-04-17T23:14:00.001+01:00

I never thought the day would come when I would stop being crazy about Facebook. In the early days you could have called me a Facebook addict, and you'd have been right. I was that person who was always on Facebook. If I wasn't chatting I was uploading pictures. If I wasn't looking at pictures of other people I was farming on Farmville. It was bad. Like a junkie, I always needed my daily Facebook fix. Whenever I couldn't go online for one reason or the other, I comforted myself with thoughts of what I would do on Facebook when I eventually got my hands on some internet connection.

Fastforward several months and things are no longer the same between me and Facebook. I no longer upload pictures (frankly because I no longer want to). I don't post stuff unless it's absolutely necessary. I go on Facebook only about once a week now, and for brief periods; and when I do go I'm never available to chat.

I still think Facebook is one of the best ways to reconnect with people we've lost contact with, and sometimes we even meet new people who go on to add value to our lives (I have experienced both). You might also meet the occasional psycho or stalker (or both) while you're at it, but what the heck. For some reason I've found that lately I'm not so eager to share. I tend to hold my privacy a little closer to my chest. While I still appreciate Facebook for its more useful functions, I can say that for me it has lost it's charm. For one I hate the fact that I can no longer "Decline" a friend request. I can only "Not Now" it. Another problem I have with Facebook and other such social networking tools, so to speak, is that while they do help you to connect, this happens mostly on a superficial level, reducing relationships to pokes, likes, status updates etc etc. But I guess it's the humans and not the technology that's to be blamed for this.

Anyway, whatever our take on this might be, it's important that while we go about our business as the world gets even smaller, we remember that a poke a day does not a relationship make. The people who are important to us deserve much more.

SOMETHING IN THE AIR...

2011-04-14T10:51:00.002+01:00

I’m not much of a political commentator, but it just seems to me like there’s something different about Nigeria in 2011. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I only feel this way because, coming to a certain age, and with it a certain consciousness, I’ve taken a greater interest in the affairs of my country. (I still don’t know much about Nigerian politics, but I know more now than I ever have.) Or maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten tired of Nigeria’s status as the ‘sleeping giant’, the laughing stock of Africa, and indeed the world. It could be that I’m just seeing what I want so badly to see.

But somehow I don’t think it’s just me, and these are just some of the reasons why. In 2011, for the first time ever in Nigeria, presidential debates were organised by different groups (I’m particularly proud of Kola Oyeneyin and the Sleeves Up group). Also in 2011, we have witnessed more active participation of Nigerian youth in the country’s affairs, particularly through the use of social media. The nonchalant attitude of youths to politics has reduced considerably as we now ask questions that cannot be answered by vague promises and clumsy rhetoric. It also seems to me that this year there is a certain decline in tribal and religious sentiment in choosing our leaders (and in this, more than anything else, I might be wrong). I’ve heard many Nigerians say that they don’t care if our next president comes from the moon; they just want someone that will do the job well. But maybe the people around me don’t count for much in the grand scheme of things and are just a negligible part of the Nigerian population, but I sure hope not. We’ve actually heard reports of people staying back at the polling centres after casting their votes to ensure that they are counted. We’ve heard of suspicious characters found with voting materials being handed over to the police – after correct beating, of course – by highly vigilant civilians.

So is it just me, or is there something different about Nigeria in 2011? I think there’s something in the air this time. Smells like the start of something new.

I WANT MY WRITING GROOVE BACK!

2011-03-27T20:46:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I just don’t feel like writing, and for a long time now I’ve been feeling that way. It gets me wondering if I’m the same person that wrote the likes of ‘Pet Peeves' and 'Pet Peeves II’, ‘Blame it on a Yellow Dress’ and ‘The Quarry’. What magic formula did I use then? There were times when I’d wake up in the middle of the night with something in my head that I just had to put down. What was the secret? Was there even a secret? If I ever find out, I’ll let you know.

But I do realize that my writing is not about feelings – it’s mostly about discipline and the ability to just do it, feelings or no feelings. Having recently decided that I want to turn my writing into something more than just a hobby, I know that I should write something every day. And that is what this here is: my work for today. I know that I won’t write something absolutely fantastic every time (you can consider this post proof), but I’ll write anyway.

Most times, I don’t remember how I got to write something I wrote. I usually cannot trace the train of thought or the process that culminated in a particular work (if I could, then I’d have the formula). Writing, for me, is almost like an out of body experience, and so when people ask: “How did you think of that?” I tell them the truth: I don’t know. Very little of what I write comes from my personal experience (I guess that’s what the imagination is for). I haven’t drawn much from my own life in my writing, though there has been much to draw from.

~~Can I stop now? I don’t feel like writing anymore.~~

The question is this: how do I get my writing groove back? Inspiration is a fickle little *$!"%…, and considering I don’t know what moves mine to come, I might be waiting till I’m seventy if I choose to sit and twiddle my thumbs till it comes knocking! I started Pet Peeves III this week, but right now I think it’s ~~crap~~ not very good. I should just keep writing, abi. But apart from that…anything else? Help, anybody?

STOLEN DREAMS III

2011-03-22T22:44:00.001+01:00

Nneka ran all the way from the bus stop to the hospital. She reached the hospital’s waiting room and grabbed the nearest nurse.

“Please, where is Doctor Michael?”

“I’ll go and look for him,” the nurse said, shrugging Nneka's hand off as she hurried away.

Nneka’s heart pounded and she struggled to catch her breath. She tried sitting down but couldn’t stay still for long. The past hour with Otunba had been even more gruesome than she’d expected. The important thing, though, was that she now had the money. She said a silent prayer of gratitude for the good doctor who had allowed her to go and get the money while he treated Ginika. She would give him some extra money for the trouble. She saw the doctor and immediately seized his arm.

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much. God will bless you and your family,” she gushed.

“Madam…”

Nneka went on her knees, still thanking the doctor . He managed to convince her to stand up again.

“See, Doctor, I have the money now,” she said. Smiling with triumph, she opened her handbag to reveal the crisp one thousand naira notes Otunba had given her. She continued quickly.

“See...eighty thousand naira. I even got more than that, just in case. And see...I brought you extra five thousand naira for yourself, for helping us.” She started to remove the money from her bag.

“Madam, that won’t be necessary,” Doctor Michael said.

“No, no, take it!”

Nneka took hold of the doctor’s hand and tried to stuff the money in it. He withdrew his hand sharply. Only then did she see the look on his face.

“Doctor, take it now! I’ve brought the money. Take it, and take your own five thousand for helping me,” she said, her eyes begging him to deny what she already knew was coming.

“Madam, I’m sorry. It’s the hospital’s policy. We cannot start treatment on any patient without the payment of the proper fees.”

A feeling of dread crept up Nneka’s spine as she looked at the doctor’s apologetic face. The truth was slowly dawning on her, but she would not accept it.

“Doctor, I said I have the money now! Take it. Take it!” Nneka was screaming now.

“Madam, you have to understand that my hands were tied. I’m sorry, but your daughter passed away some minutes ago.”

“Nooooo!”

In a violent motion, Nneka turned her bag over, spilling the naira notes on the floor. The people in the waiting room watched with interest. Nneka grabbed the doctor by the neck and, with superhuman strength, began choking him.

“I’ve brought your money now. Take it and give me my Ginika!” she screamed over and over as she shook him, tightening her grip.

The people rushed to intervene. It took five men to get Nneka off, and by then the doctor was barely conscious.

“Ginikaaaaa!” she roared.

Forcing her way out of the men’s grip, Nneka ran out of the hospital before anyone could stop her.

*****

It was a typical weekday. The bright afternoon sun beat down on the street with its scorching fury. Traffic moved in a slow crawl as hawkers manoeuvred their way around the vehiches, occasionally stopping to pitch their goods to motorists. The roadside was crowded with traders selling an array of goods. The street was a wild splash of colours as school students made their way home in noisy groups. Coker Street was alive with its usual actors: the beggars, pickpockets, hawkers and everyday people.

The woman marched forward in her blackened, tattered clothes. Her long hair was in untidy tangles and her face was covered with sores. Her bare feet had several cuts, in which layers of dirt had been long embedded. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. She said something, and then nodded in agreement with her unseen companions. Stopping suddenly, she looked right across the street and into the eyes of Iya Tope.

“Em, Iya Bose. See as that mad woman dey look me.” Iya Tope whispered, her lips barely moving, to her neighbor in the shed beside her. She didn't want to attract the mad woman's attention by making her think they were interested in her.

Iya Bose looked up and saw the mad woman. She recognized her immediately. Before she could say anything, the woman dashed across the street.

“Give me my boli!” she screamed.

She got to Iya Tope’s shed, before the women could react, and grabbed four well-roasted plantains. Then she ran off as quickly as she had come as Iya Tope screamed after her.

“Fi le, jo! Do you want to chase a mad woman? Leave it o jare!” Iya Bose said.

Iya Tope cursed and muttered under her breath, mentally calculating the loss from the stolen plantains.

“See as the woman dey look me sef. Like say she don see me before,” Iya Tope hissed.

“Eh, this your shed, na she dey stay here before,” Iya Bose said, turning over the corn she was roasting.

“Ah, no wonder!” Iya Tope exclaimed. “So wetin happen to am?”

Iya Bose was quiet for a moment. She had never liked that woman. Her husband had been one of the woman’s more ardent admirers, and she had hated her for it.

“God don dey punish am.”

“Wetin she do?” Iya Tope asked, her ears perking up.

“She be prostitute, ashewo. She don steal plenty people husband?” Iya Bose said.

“Iro ni! Na lie!”

“Na true! I say she wan steal Papa Bose one time, but trust me now, I no gree,” Iya Bose said. She continued vehemently, “Yes now! She get one bastard child now. Na only God know which person husband get dat one. The girl die, na im she come crase.”

“Oluwa o!” Iya Bose sighed. "Olorun maje."

“Dat woman na very wicked woman! She don spoil many people marriage,” Iya Tope said.

There was a thoughtful silence between the women.

“Dis life eh,” Iya Tope sighed. “Na person don go put epe, swear, for her head. See am now. The evil wey she don do dey follow am. We no fit play wayo for dis life o! God dey look.”

The women watched Nneka’s retreating figure in silence, each with her own thoughts.

THE END

STOLEN DREAMS II

2011-03-07T13:46:00.001+01:00

“Madam, are you okay?”

Nneka opened her eyes to see the doctor’s concerned face peering into hers. She hadn’t heard him come in. Nneka took her seat as the doctor went around to his side of the table and sat down.

“Doctor, how is my daughter?” Nneka asked, her voice hoarse with anxiety.

“Not very good, I’m afraid,” the doctor said, shaking his head.

“But you are treating her?”

“No, madam, I was coming to that. You have to pay a deposit of eighty thousand naira before we can start anything on her.”

“Ah-ah! But what of the five thousand I paid before?” Nneka screamed.

“Madam, that was only to get her registered as a patient. That was not for her treatment,” the doctor said.

“But doctor, what is wrong with her? She just collapsed when she came back from school. What is wrong with my child? She has never been sick before!”

“We don’t know yet, madam. We haven’t done a proper diagnosis yet. We need your deposit before we can do anything more. But whatever it is, it looks serious. I suspect there’s a problem with her heart.”

“Jesus Christ! Heart problem?” Nneka screamed as she shot up from the chair.

“Calm down, madam.”

Ignoring the doctor, Nneka paced the office, deep in thought. She could think of only one way to get the money fast enough. She steeled herself and made up her mind.

“Doctor, I promise, I will bring the money today. Just give me a few hours, but please, start treating my daughter. I beg you in the name of God.”

She dashed out of the office without waiting for the doctor’s reply.

*****

Nneka could barely conceal her disgust as she watched Otunba greedily devour the mountain of food before him.

“Ineka, Ineka, so you have finally come to Otunba. Yes, I knew you would come one day, and I have been waiting patiently for you.”

He laughed, and Nneka forced a smile as she watched him stuff a huge ball of pounded yam into the black hole that was his mouth. Nneka looked away so he would not see the nauseated look on her face. He ate like a pig. She looked around Otunba’s richly furnished dining room. She had come through the living room to get here, and the only other room she’d been in that could compare with Otunba’s living room was that of Daniel’s parents. And now, like then, Ginika was at the centre of it all. The thought brought tears of regret to Nneka’s eyes.

“Ah-ah! Ineka, wa je now! Come and eat with me. This is Iyan and Efo. I know you Omo Ibos don’t like Amala, but this is Iyan, pounded yam. you people eat that one.”

He smiled, showing the pieces of vegetable that clung to his yellow teeth.

“Thank you, sir. But I’m not hungry.”

“My dear,, what is all this 'sir' business? Cheer up,” he said, reaching over to pat her shoulder with his clean hand. “We have made our arrangement. I will give you the money. One hundred and fifty thousand for you to be at my service for three months, abi?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ehem, so cheer up. But Ineka, let me warn you now o; I intend to make you work for every kobo…you know what I mean.”

He winked, and then grinned lecherously, pointing in the general area of her crotch. Nneka looked away.

“So Ineka, let me tell you of how I managed to steal this my new cook from those people at the Hilton. He is very good o.”

Nneka started at Otunba as he droned on about his cook. She shuddered with repulsion. This would not be easy at all. But then she remembered Ginika, and that gave her the strength to suppress her own feelings. Otunba was huge in a bear-like way, and his skin was black as midnight. He had fat hands, with short, stubby fingers and blunt nails. His face was unattractive; he had red, beady eyes, a large, bulbous nose, and a big, black hole for a mouth. His lips were black from years and years of tobacco smoking. Rumour had it that he’d been an agbero at the Mile II park years ago, and had used his wife and four children for money making rituals.

Nneka sighed. She knew very little about this man; only that he was rich, and very persistent. After that first time she’d sold boli to him at her shed on Coker Street, he’d kept coming back. She had assumed that he liked her boli so much, until he’d told her he was interested in her.

“Just let Otunba into your life, and you will see how good he can be. You won’t regret it o! You are a very beautiful woman you know. You need a correct man that can take care of you. I’m thinking of buying you from your hushand,” he’d said to her on many occasions.

Nneka did not think of herself as beautiful. Maybe she had, at one time. But now she was too busy taking care of Ginika to think of herself. She was oblivious to the look of quiet longing in the eyes of the men around her; of her aloof, unreachable aura that attracted and maddened them at the same time. Ginika was all she cared about.

Nneka often smiled at Otunba’s assumption that she had a husband. For her, there had been no man after Daniel. His betrayal had left her with an intense fear of, and aversion to men. Her experience with Daniel had robbed her of her one chance to get into the university. When Nneka’s mother had died five years after Ginika’s birth of high blood pressure, Nneka had moved to Coker Street, Orile, to continue her life. She’d decided that Ginika would have the life that she had missed due to her own foolishness. Ginika was in J.S.S. 2, and she was an excellent student. She’d taken after her mother.

“Oya, mo ti je tan. I have finished eating. It is now time to satisfy another type of hunger. Let us go inside,” Otunba said, rising.

Nneka felt a sudden surge of courage. Her daughter’s life would not be cut short, no matter what. She would save Ginika, and in doing so, she would save herself.

I'M NOW AN AUNTIE!!!

2011-02-24T15:51:00.004+01:00

This does not need much explaining; I am now officially an Auntie for the first time in my life. So now, apart from describing me as daughter, sister, friend, cousin, friend’s friend, cousin’s friend, friend's cousin, cousin's cousin, oyinbo, fine girl, that girl, smallie, solo... and all the other names you may like to call me (but which I may not necessarily answer to), please feel free to call me Auntie. I will definitely answer you – and proudly too – because no longer will I have just random people (e.g. that conductor at the bus stop, the woman selling second-hand bras at Balogun) calling me ‘Auntie’, but I will have a real-life Nephew to whom I am really an Auntie call me just that.

Lest I forget, I told a friend of mine the news, and after saying congratulations, he suggested I start looking like an Auntie. So somebody please help me out – what is the ‘Auntie’ look? Please leave a comment if you have any ideas. You can put up a link if you have pictures. Thanks.

I once read an article in Readers’ Digest about the difference between an Aunt and an Auntie. I don’t remember the details, but I think this sums it up quite well – Aunties are fun, Aunts are not (so now you see why I insist on being called Auntie).

I know I’m rambling, and yes, I’m not the first Auntie and I won’t be the last. I don’t care. For me, this is special. Now allow me to prophesy into the life of my new nephew:

Dear ______ (I don’t know your name yet, but that’s no problem – He knows),

Even as your cry was heard when you were born, the world will hear your voice;

You are a blessing to your generation;

The Spirit of Wisdom is with you and orders your steps every day of your life;

You are divinely protected, and nothing shall by any means harm you;

You are blessed with a sound mind and a discerning spirit;

Your live to fulfil God’s plans for your life;

And for your parents, all that they need to guide you right and raise you well is provided for them.

I prophesy this in Jesus’ Name.

So it is.