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1 Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction member 316 - Gene (Eugene Odogwu)

2 Nigerian Fiction title 156

*****

""Tell me your dreams"", ""Do tell me you must""!

The clanging of the bell which signified the end of the afternoon shift, suddenly jarred poor Tunde Salako awake from his troubled slumber. He'd woken up disoriented, but after a furtive survey of his environ, a cold feeling of dread washed over him. As an industrial machinist, complete concentration was demanded during working hours because, lack thereof was the main cause of accidents in any meat grinding mill. Sadly, he could no longer give his complete concentration because his once stable existence had gone on a drastic decline some weeks ago. And it had all began with the damn nightmares. The very same one he had last night.

The imagery of last night's nightmare had been no different. Only that this time, he'd finally gotten a glimpse of her haunted face. He'd woken up chilled to the bones and grasping for breathe as the all too familiar but almost forgotten feeling of claustrophobia threatened to derail his senses. He'd then shut his eyes, in a futile attempt at chasing the chilling and graphic imagery of the butchery, but it was to no avail. His fingers had been clawed up, the hairs on his nape had stood at all ends and his teeth had rhythmically clattered in terror as the peculiarity of his nightmares, like other nights, dared him to return to his troubled slumber.

When he'd first started having these nightmares, he hadn't been able to recognise her. Because apart from her skin complexion, the bloody murder weapon and the hands that repeatedly dealt the killer blows, hands that look distinctly like his, all other details of the nightmare had been fuzzy. Then he also recalled the despicable malevolence that had emanated from the unseen assailant; a malevolence that also bore a very uncanny similarity to what he'd felt for the women who'd spurned him over the years.

He'd been spurned because he'd always found himself unable to offer more than a few monosyllabic responses while on dates. More often than not, he'd been accused of being uppity and hebetudinous and thus blamed for the lengthy and embarrassing silence the dates suffered. So after recording several failed attempts, he decided to stop trying to communicate with the women folks. In his defence, he claimed that his failures stemmed from the fact that he lacked the emotional ingredients to attract a woman. But then, he wondered if repeated rejection and bitter resentment should justify such butchery he'd envisioned in his nightmares.

When his nightmares kept recurring, he decided to visit his psychologist, Dr Okechukwu for help. After he described his nightmares to the doctor, Tunde broke down and wept like a man who was spiritually being hunted by his village witches. So to allay his fears, Dr Okechukwu proposed a diagnosis based on Sigmund Freud's theory of dreams. Dr Okechukwu had reached this conclusion because as a kid, Tunde had been treated for chronic claustrophobia and extreme nyctophobia, a problem the doctor had traced to the physical and psychological abuses Tunde's mother who had been a psychiatrist of some sort, had meted out on him.

Dr Okechukwu stated that Sigmund Freud had called this kind of dream, a manifest dream and that it is a dream as consciously perceived and subsequently remembered by the dreamer. He further stated that Freud discovered that behind a manifest dream, could be uncovered a number of latent thoughts, and these thoughts can be transformed by a process of dream work into a manifest dream. When the manifest dream is then analysed by the method of free association, the dream representation could be understood as an attempt at the fulfilment of wishes of which the dreamer was not consciously aware of.

So the doctor recommended further therapy because Tunde's fractured psyche was now desperately trying to murder the bitter memories of his mother in his head. But despite several sessions, the nightmare became worse, Tunde's nerves became frayed and his usually exemplary work rate suffered heavily. He also became disillusioned with life and stopped visiting his doctor because if Sigmund Freud's theory was anything to go by, he'd seen no hope for his condition. But now that he'd finally caught a glimpse of her, it placed everything into a new perspective. Sadly, it also placed him in a tight corner because the face he'd glimpsed, belonged to one of the only two women who had ever offered him some form of comfort during his turbulent childhood.

*****

Two days later, Tunde was yet again tormented by the same harrowing nightmare. Only that this time, he hadn't only seen her haunted face; he'd also perceived her feeling of pain, horror and betrayal. Her feelings had painstakingly been delineated with an exceptional vividness that, he'd woken up and stumbled towards his drawer, in search of his bottle of whiskey. A few minutes later, as he sat down shivering and waiting for the whiskey to steady his nerves, he caught the movement of his effervescent and unofficial housemate that he'd christened Ekute', and a fury bordering on mania overcame him. He usually accommodated Ekute's shenanigans because having it around made him feel less lonely and unloved. But his present predicament made him so raw on the nerves that he bolted up and gave chase.

When he finally cornered poor Ekute', he vehemently stamped on it with the sole of his feet till it was reduced to a squishy and gory mass of bloody flesh. By the time his fury was spent, an intense feeling of satisfaction had already blanketed him. Strangely, killing the mouse had calmed his jittery nerves, and had also offered him an inner tranquility he hadn't experienced in awhile. It was at that point he made up his mind; ""He was no longer going to wait for the nightmares to go away. He was going to squash the nightmares away, once and for all.

So he dressed up quickly, locked his front door and hurried towards his car. Thirty minutes later, he arrived at her street in the Aguda area of Surulere and watched her house for a time. When he was sure she was home alone, he got down, walked to her door and knocked. After a few minutes, he heard her asking who it was, and when he responded, she opened the door surprised. But before she could ask him what he wanted at this time of the night, he shoved her back into the house and repeatedly struck her head with his car jack. Sometime during his frenzied attack, a feeling of déjà vu overcame him briefly, but he shrugged it aside as he gleefully continued to exorcise his demons forever.

Two hours later, Tunde lay sprawled on his bed in exhaustion. Then just before he embraced the beckoning tentacles of the long awaited sleep, he recalled the Latin phrase ""Corpus delicti"", and an evil chuckle escaped him. The phrase is a western jurisprudence term, which is translated to English as ""Body of crime"". Most importantly, it is a principle which states that a crime must first be proven to have occurred, before a person can be convicted of committing it.

His last mischievous thought before sleep finally took him, was how his very recently committed murder was ever going to be proven when by morning, the already crunched evidence would be canned and carted away to be stacked in thousands of stores all over the country.

About an hour later, the disturbing ring of his telephone tore through the very fibre of his subconscious. When he groggily picked up and asked who it was, the reply he got was; ""Tell me your dreams"", ""Do tell me you must""!

That simple and somewhat harmless phrase triggered a host of physical changes in Tunde, as he immediately relaxed and stared into space. He was once again at the mercies of another's whim and for thirty minutes, he listened and responded to the hypnotising voice that probed him from the end of the line.

*****

At the other end of the phone conversation, an evil smirk escaped her lips as she whispered the counter phrase that would release him from his hypnotic trance. When she finally dropped the line, she made a mental note never to eat or buy any brand of corned beef again, before she then began to bask in her triumph.

It was so ironic that what had started as a simple hypnotic remedy for extreme psychiatric and psychological conditions had blossomed into a complex masterstroke. It was also funny to note that, years ago she'd accidentally stumbled upon the connection between hypnotic suggestions and dream projections in one of the most unlikeliest of circumstances. Since her serendipitous finding, she'd discreetly used Tunde as her human guinea pig, until she'd perfected the procedure and tested it on more of her patients.

She really didn't consider herself an evil woman or mother for that matter. She also didn't consider what she'd subjected him to all these years as inhumane or unethical. She'd merely chalked it as one of the sacrifices one must pay for the advancement of humanity, even if the mental state of young boy had been the psychological equivalent of the military term, ""Collateral damage"".

As she made to go to bed, she remembered one last call she had to make, so she picked up her phone and dialled it for the second time that night. While she waited for the line to be answered, she giggled as she thought of what she was going to tell him this time. When the line was finally picked, she asked if she was speaking with Aliyu Suleiman, and when a heavily accentuated Hausa voice answered in the affirmative, she whispered; ""Tell me your dreams"", ""Do tell me you must""!

*****

THE EKO HERALD

Missing person report

45 year old Dr Funsho Akinyele, who was reported missing from her home 72 hours ago, has still not turned up. The Nigerian police are now treating the disappearance as simply, a missing person case since there has been no ransom note or body to prove otherwise.

She was last seen by Chief Justice. Jonathan Okechukwu who had dropped her off at her home on the night she allegedly went missing. The Chief Justice, who suspects foul play, has pointed accusing fingers at his soon to be ex-wife, Dr Amaka Okechukwu. A woman who he is still embroiled with, in an ugly divorce settlement and child custody case.

Dr Funsho Akinyele, who had been Dr Okechukwu's friend and partner for years, was last month, forced to resign from the private practice they operated, when it became public knowledge that she was having an affair with her friend's husband. The police have questioned Dr Amaka Okechukwu about her whereabouts on the night, and she has since answered all their questions satisfactorily, while also providing an ironclad alibi to back her.

Please anyone with valuable information as to her whereabouts should contact the nearest police station or Chief Justice Okechukwu's chambers.

All hands on deck

In other news, the people's alliance party's presidential candidate, Senator Aliyu Suleiman who is in poll position to be the next civilian president of the federal republic of Nigeria, in a speech on Friday, spoke of the need for all Nigerians to be.......

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 310 - Haemlet

Nigerian Fiction Title 149

Forty three years after those naive thoughts, my perception has changed tremendously. My experiences in life has made an unflinching believer off me because my life in a nutshell has been by a far stretch, a very tumultuous one. Despite the fact that my life had been filled with one too many disappointments and personal tragedies, I still held on. I held on because I learnt that without faith, it is impossible to please the maker. Try as hard as you wish, work as hard as you will, it will be for nought, because you cannot just please him without it.

My earliest memory of the bitter taste of disappointments and personal tragedies was at the tender age of five. I had woken up that Saturday morning overly excited because it was my birthday. My father had promised to travel back home to celebrate with me, but sadly, he never did. The fact that he never did wasn't as a result of negligence or an error of forgetfulness or lack of concern, but as a result of the most infelicitous of circumstances. My father had died in an auto crash accident on his way to Ibadan, where we resided and the sinister part was that the fifteen other passengers in the same crash all survived unscathed. I and my brother were too young to understand the magnitude of the situation but my mother on the other hand, took it hard. She wept her soul out, tore off her hair, starved herself, blamed the cruel world and questioned her maker relentlessly.

She was heartbroken, a woman completely torn by a despair she never recovered from. She denounced her religious beliefs, neglected I and my little brother and withdrew from the world as she saw it. She escaped into a place within her, where I presume and hope she found solace. Months later, she selfishly followed suit in our father's unfortunate path and thus left us alone in this cruel world. For a time, I couldn't bring myself to yield through the path of forgiveness until I came upon this piece of quote from a poem by Alexander pope, ""To err is human; to forgive, divine"". The message was so abstruse in its simplicity that I came to these stark realizations; with forgiveness follows inner peace and tranquility. Also, if the maker could forgive my trespasses, who was I not to forgive my mother's weakness and desertion?

With our parents gone, we were obliged to live with our uncle Jide who had no kids of his own. In his house, we lived in subjugation because uncle Jide's wife made us pay for her incapability to bear the fruit of the womb. Uncle Jide also meted out his own form of horror by sometimes creeping into my room late at night to perform sacrilegious acts on my person. On nights like that, I'd weep bitterly, lash out at the maker and question his motives for allowing this befall us righteous children. But in the end I prevailed and still believed. I still believed even after Yemi my brother, a haunted and lost soul who had been tortured by the inequities of life, took to the streets and began to commit all sorts of atrocities. I haven't set eyes on him till this day and I know not if he still breathes.

I struggled with physical, mental and psychological abuses while undergoing my secondary school education and finally, battled my way into the University of Ibadan for my tertiary education. In my third year, my English Professor, Prof Adekunle, left me with a hard choice; his bed or my guaranteed failure in his course. What he offered went against all my morals, so I adamantly refused and reaped the heavy dividends. I repeatedly took the course, failed and spent two extra years in school, yet I prevailed.

When Aminat Musa, a close friend of mine questioned the direction of my faith and wondered if they weren't misplaced. I remained firm and reminded her that by faith, Noah prepared an ark and believed it will not be crushed. By faith, Abraham traveled, looking for the Promised Land. By faith, Sarah was able to give birth to a child when she was past the age of child bearing. By faith Moses' parents weren't afraid of the king's command and hid him for three months. By faith, the same Moses chose to associate himself with the children of God rather than immerse himself in the riches he was entitled to as the adopted son of Pharaoh's daughter. By faith, Moses left Egypt not fearing the wrath of the king. By faith also, the Israelites passed through the Red Sea and the walls of Jericho crumbled.

These were all different people in different times with more hardship and lesser opportunities, but they all had one thing in common, hope. And they all died for it without having received the promises, but rather, having perceived it. What was perceived convinced them to embrace and confess that they were but mere strangers and sojourners in this bitter cold world. They all strongly believed in what they did not yet possess and died without receiving it, so who was I to act otherwise?

By then, I had already come to understand that our world was framed by the sacred words of the maker, such that things which can be seen are not made of things which do seem to appear. Simply put, we should go in accordance with the biblical account of our creation, rather than any other opposing theories. Few have agreed with this line of thought and more have labeled it blind faith and therefore pointless. But I ask them these;

Does blind faith exist? Is it a valid phrase in the actual sense of its supposed significance? Aren't we making a common grammatical blunder by placing blind before faith and thus making the phrase an almost useless repetition?

I ask all these because faith is said to be an assurance of things hoped for and the evidence or proof of things not seen. Faith is blind and I am not expected to see what I believe, I just believe because I know there is a higher being and he resides in my heart. So I proposed another line of enquiry;

Are we being blinded by our faith or lack thereof? Or were we born blind to the stark spirituality of this world, and thus left with no other choice than to believe in what cannot be perceived?

I have held on to my beliefs because I made myself left with just that choice. And it had filled me with great joy that because I had held on, I had finally found happiness when I got married to Tunde, the man I loved. I still believed even when we searched for the fruit of the womb for seven years to no avail. I still believed even after the pressure from his family had forced him to take another woman for his wife. I felt so much hurt but still believed when I witnessed the birth of their three beautiful children, children that could have been I and Tunde's. And I still believed even after I was eventually diagnosed of having terminal cervical cancer.

Even on my death bed, I believe more than ever because I can now feel him, for he hasn't deserted me. I have no one here to comfort me physically but the spiritual comfort showered upon me can never be replaced by all the physical comfort in the world. My time is near and my energy slowly dwindles to a trickle. I feel the cancer cells voraciously devouring my inside, but I also feel his comforting presence the strongest. It is like the warm soothing feel of the early morning sunlight on one's face after a refreshing night rest. The feeling holds my pain captive and plasters a smile on my face because I know that even though I have lived a tragic life, I will die filled with mirth. For the first time in my life, I am at peace with myself and I will die smiling because I can now feel some of the things Abraham, Joseph, Noah and the others perceived but never received, and it is only because I believed.

These are my last words, this is my testament. This is the legacy I leave behind for others like me, who have been treated unfairly by their lot in life. All these I have written as a symbol of hope for them because a human devoid of hope, is in a perpetual state of self inflicted sorrow. So hold my words dearly and celebrate my life for its all I ask. Remember my name for I have no one on earth to accord me such honors. Remember the name, Adeola Folorunsho for this is my testament of hope.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 310 - Haemlet

Nigerian Fiction Title 147

Yemoja had many children and she gave them all such beautiful names, some of which were, Orisa, Man, Woman and Child.... Yemoja loved all of her children very dearly. However, there was one other thing that Yemoja loved just as much and that was the sweet taste of molasses. One of her favorite foods! The Children who lived near the Ogun River would bring Yemoja molasses everyday, pouring it into the river as they sang her song of praise:

Yemoja Maye'le'wo, Maye'le'wo,YemojaYemoja Maye'le'wo, Maye’le’wo, Yemoja

This pleased Yemoja and as a token of her appreciation, she would leave gifts of colorful river stones for all of the children at the base of old Baobab trees that stood along the rivers edge. During the festival of ""The Mother of Fish"" everyone from the surrounding villages would come to the Ogun River where they placed special offerings of fruit, molasses and white Yams. Everyone would then gather to recite a special prayer, in honor of the ""Mother of Fishes"":

It is the bird that takes good fortune to the Spirit of the ""Mother of Fishes""

The Goddess of the Ogun River.

It is the bird Aluko that takes good fortune to the Spirit of the Lagoon

The assistant to the Goddess of the Ogun River.

It is the parrot that takes good fortune to the chief of Iwo.

It is children who bring good fortune from heaven to Earth.

The Great One who gives good things, the Great One who gives good things

The Great One who gives good things. Give me good things from the Great One who gives good things. May it be so.

Abeokuta was the village in which the Ogun River was located, and many of the villagers went there to collect water so that they could wash their clothes, cook their meals and bathe their skin. During the day, the sun's rays could be seen rising harmoniously off of the surface water...However the river was just as mystifying at night; Crescent moon and stars illuminating the sky, shedding light on the mysteries that lie hidden in the depths below. One evening as the children danced and played under what seemed like the biggest moon they had ever seen... Yemoja noticed a little girl sitting all alone near an old familiar baobab tree.

Yemoja swam up to where the child sat propped up against this old tree. And as Yemoja drew closer to the little girl, she noticed that she had tears in her eyes; why do you cry, asked Yemoja? My mother has fallen ill and we do not have enough money to buy medicine for her. Tears began to stream down her face as Yemoja attempted to comfort her.

What is your name child, said Yemoja? My name is Bamidele! What a beautiful name you have been given, do you know the meaning of your name child? Bamidele appeared puzzled because no one had ever told her names had meaning. What does my name mean asked Bamidele? ""Follow me home"", said Yemoja. Your parents picked a very special name for you my child. . Don't worry, I will provide the medicine for your mother, and she then wiped the remaining tears from Bamidele's eyes.

God has chosen you to carry out a very special mission on earth, do you have any idea what you have been chosen to do ? No, I do not, said Bamidele. You will find out soon enough!, Yemoja then jumped into the river and returned with a calabash filled with water and leaves; now you will lead the way and I will follow.... A sense of relief came over Bamidele as she quickly sprang to her feet…. Yemoja then jumped out of the water onto land and to Bamidele’s surprise she had grown two feet! Why do you look so surprised child…? Umm umm, when did you grow those two feet? They were hidden beneath my fins said Yemoja, with a smile...

Upon their arrival to the small village, everyone seemed to stop what they were doing so that they could get a glimpse of this beautiful woman that walked along side Bamidele. A woman they had not seen in their village before...When they arrived in front of the small hut Bamidele shared with her ailing mother and two sisters, Yemoja instructed Bamidele to wait outside… Disappointed, Bamidele asked, ""Why must I wait outside?"" Well.....said Yemoja, You are too young to know the secrets hidden within the calabash. I will do as you wish, but please, I beg of you, prevent my mother from being swallowed up by the heavens. Do not worry my child; your mother will be healed. Yemoja entered the hut where she found Bamidele's mother lying on a beautiful straw mat, covered in the sunlight which streamed from a makeshift window in the corner of the room….

Night had begun to fall as Bamidele kneeled in prayer outside the entrance to her hut. And as the night sky grew darker, Bamidele became quite worried and concerned about her mother's fate. All kinds of frightening thoughts began entering her mind. And Just when Bamidele was about to enter the hut she shared with her family, Yemoja appeared!

Have you made my mother strong again, has she been healed, said Bamidele? Yes, said Yemoja, your mother has been healed, would you like to see her? Yes I would, said Bamidele, with a big smile. Bamidele thanked Yemoja and went running into the hut where she found her mother dancing and singing songs of praise to Yemoja. Bamidele ran up to her mother and they embraced each other for what seemed like an eternity... In the wee hours of the morning Bamidele and her mother decided to pay a special visit to the Ogun River, to offer Yemoja her favorite food as a token of their appreciation. And as they poured molasses into the river, Bamidele and her mother could hear Yemoja singing:

Follow me home

Follow me home

Is the name given to the child that heals

Follow me home

Follow me home

Is the child who kneels

Follow me home

Follow me home

The fate of Bamidele's mother has been sealed....

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 352 - Ifayoriju Olubuyi ( Melissa Harris )

Nigerian Fiction Title 144

Tonight I must lead the village of Nsukwu to where I have hidden it, for my crimes and the suffering of my parents must end. Desperately I listen to hear of my missionary teacher’s return, the “Onye ocha”, the only person that stood by me even when my family and village forsook me. But he was a tardy too late because I can now hear the sound of approaching feet and whispers as the time for my reckoning arrived. And my broken soul yearned for solace as I saw the inevitability and hopelessness of my situation.

I still remember the day it all started with so much clarity and intensity that it brought tears to my inner eyes. It was in the rainy season of the year after the missionary had come into our village, Nna had come home angry after he had consulted with the oracles about my constant illness. It was revealed to him that I was an “Ogbanje”, an evil spirit who has been bringing pain to them by tormenting and dragging them through the rigorous rituals of childbirth, only to leave them shattered and heart broken by dying. The oracle claimed that my mission was to rob them of all their happiness by dying, watching them mourn and then coming back when the scars have almost healed to give them hope only to shatter it again.

Is it my fault that three others of the same gender and likeness have died before me? Is it my fault that we all were afflicted by the same mysterious illness that eventually took their life and would eventually claim mine? Was it my fault that I was never as strong as my peers and even now lay sick and weak on my bed? All these I asked myself as I was being carried away to the dibia’s shrine where I would hence forth remain till I revealed the whereabouts of my “Iyi-Uwa”, or the rites of “Ibe-Ugwu” would be performed on me because it was sometimes thought to get rid of the “Ogbanje” too.

All this accusations I could have lived with if my sweet and loving Nne hadn’t shied away from my touch when I cried out and tried to reach for her as they carried me away. That singular action from her brought down all the bitter tears I had struggled to hold back because I could accept Nna deserting me to the verdicts of the gods but not Nne. That sweet loving woman who stayed up and sang to me in my worst nights, Nne that cried with me when the pains of my illness had become nearly unbearable for me, the same Nne who carried and bathed me when the rigors of my illness had ravaged my body had looked the other way like I was an “Osu” and that singular act of betrayal burnt so deep in my innocent soul that it left it forever scarred.

I could understand my Nna and Nne trying to find answers to their problems, but why blame me an innocent child for a misfortune that was not just theirs but also mine? Aren’t they emphatic to my plight? Don’t they know that I go through the most heinous of pains and suffering during my bouts with this mysterious illness? Or do they think I would want to put myself through that kind of pain and suffering just to make them suffer? Where is the sense in that? The gods should answer me please. Are the gods really watching over us? Are they seeing my predicaments? Is their no justice in this cold world? Are the gods responsible for this? Or are the gods laughing at me now as they break “Oji” over my sufferings? All these I bitterly asked myself as they battered me with incantations and forcefully made me drink different herbal concoctions just to reveal where my “Iyi-Uwa” was buried.

I was told an “Iyi-Uwa” was an object that bound my spirit to this world and caused me to return to my Nne after I have died. The dibia also revealed that the oracle has shown him that my “Iyi-Uwa” was a piece of coloured stone and I must show them where I have hidden it, so that they can destroy it and thereby put my evil spirit to rest. So I was faced with either showing them my “Iyu-Uwa” or face the excruciating pains of the “Ibe-Ugwu” rites [circumcision].

I am merely a blossoming fourteen year old girl who had dreams of becoming a teacher in the missionary school someday, but I have already experienced eight years worth of pain and suffering. At one fell swoop I had lost the affection of both my parents and my friends to the verdict of the gods and nobody in the village cared less. Even my childhood friend Iheoma abandoned me to my fate, but still the memories of Iheoma and times we spent which now felt like a figment of my imagination almost brought a smile to my face. Iheoma and her penchant for mischief, Iheoma and that twinkle in her eyes when she was up to no good, The fun we had together on the days my illness loosened its grip on me, the times we spent in the forest day dreaming when we were supposed to be at the stream, the days we helped Nne fry garri, our quarrels and our love. All those cherishable memories marred by the injustice meted on me.

I remember the day I was too ill to participate, let alone attend the dance festival of my age group in the village. I remembered the pain I felt knowing that Iheoma and my peers would be out there jiggling and shaking their small rotund buttocks while I lay on my bed hapless and helpless. I cried my soul out that day like I am doing now, as I am being led out to find my “Iyi-Uwa”. The only difference is that today the gods are crying along with me and as the intensity of my tears increases so does the out pour of the rain outside. It was like the celestial bodies were mourning the iniquities of my life along with me.

The search is about to begin and I am surrounded by a handful of the villagers but I am surprisingly filled with renewed vigour because of the sacrifice I have decided to make today. Deep down I know I won’t survive the night for I most surely would die from the long trek into the forest, but I would rather die than face the painful rites of “Ibe-Ugwu”. I go light hearted and with hope because of the promise my missionary teacher made to me. He was the only one who vehemently fought for my release, he was the only one who came to visit me throughout the two weeks I spent in the dibia’s shrine and he was the reason I agreed to take them on this wild goose chase for if I hadn’t, he would surely have been harmed for interfering. His explanations that my Nna and Nne were the reasons for their predicaments fell on deaf ears, he tried to explain that there was something in both their genes that made them incompatible and therefore led to them birthing sick children but that only further infuriated Nna and the elders for they were willing to use the gods to blame an innocent child for nothing she knew about rather than accept the blame.

I remember his last words as he left my side, “Anyuli I will do everything in my power to help you because I know that this isn’t your doing, I leave you now not because I want to abandon you but because I want to gather help and save you from this hell, and with the support of the mission I will forever put an end to this abomination. Wish me God’s speed and wait for my return,” Then he mounted his shiny bicycle and rode towards the sunset. Tonight I pay the ultimate sacrifice for others like me out there so remember my names, “Anwuli” which I was named because I was supposed to bring happiness along with me, that same happiness I have been accused of robbing off my Nna and Nne. “Okwukwe” which I was named for I had brought hope to my parents, the hope they have lost in me and that I am now giving to others like me out there, and “Ifunaya” which I was named because of the love I had brought along with me into this world, the same love I have lost from my everyone and now showing to you all by sacrificing myself. Please weep for me, please remember me.

Glossary

Nne - Mother

Nna- Father

Dibia- Witch doctor

Osu- Outcast

Ogbanje- An evil spirit that deliberately plagues a family with misfortune

Iyi-Uwa- an object that binds an Ogbanje to this world and caused them to return after they have died

Onye Ocha- White man

Oji – Kola nut

Ibe-Ugwu – Female Circumcision

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 310 - Haemlet

Nigerian Fiction Title 127

I try not to be in them too often but sometimes they are all I have

My only companion

Growing up where I did made me what I am today. Its not an excuse. Its fact

My hood was the slums; places which make razz look like British royalty.

Places where survival is the watchword.

As a little boy, a part of me wanted to go to school and try to make something out of my life.

I wanted to get out of the slums.

Another part of me always asked why should I want to go to school? Everything around me was against schooling. The people around me didn’t give a toss about schools.

My mates were running around chasing rabbits, stealing fowls and rolling tires around in carefree bliss. Why be burdened with school and its nags?

It was always a losing battle. Conditions around me answered those questions.

No sandals (slippers), books, tuition fee –no matter how small it was-, how could I go to school?

It was that easy an answer. I joined my mates

Whenever I passed by your school to buy cigarettes n stuff for my ‘area bros’, I always felt a little pang of envy and regret, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d seen and done things which would’ve sent you into shock. I was a man. You were a boy.

As a young man, I was too set in my ways to think of a future that didn’t involve violence and/or ‘lawlessness’. I certainly wasn’t wise enough to see the path I was headed.

I was my own man and loving every moment of it.

While you were sneaking the latest Playboy and hiding it like a sin, Going in ‘deep cover’ to watch the latest Jesse Jane movie I was busy filling up her breasts and pumping my shaft into her centre of excellence.

My formative years on the street was over,

I was who I am now already at 15

It was time to polish the edges.

Teenage cultism? Fuck that. It’s child’s play! I was helping my Don of my hood clean his ‘tools’. I was the lookout boy to warn them in case the police showed up to bust them.

Home? For all intents and purposes, I lived at the ‘cartel’ (igbo-house)

I was the errand boy and always in possession of the weedy stuff.

My head (mind) was almost always filled with it.

By 17, I’d raped my first victim. She was a sweet little wench. The remorse was there, but it passed away. The others I raped only gave me pleasure.

By 19, I’d taken my 1st life. The fear was there too, but that also passed away

By 22, I was a moderately successful armed robber. Had a Golf 4 and a litany of hood bitches to choose from. Life was good

Two weeks after my 24th birthday, I went for a job. Just another job. I killed. Just another victim. I was caught

Now I’m awaiting a trial that will almost never come. Rotting at the bottom of this Police Station.

I know my fate, Death. The system while it protects white collar murderers like our leaders has got no love, for US.

Do I deserve to die? Yes. I certainly do

If I relived my life under the same conditions, without knowing my end, will I be a better person? A different person? Probably not.

The stronger ME would have made it out of the street. Maybe become a carpenter, a mechanic, or on the one-off, a university graduate.

The ME who stands in the middle would be an Agbero or Truckpusher.

The ‘ME’ is a robber. A thug. A brutish assassin. I was weak.

The Society/environment conditioned me for failure. I failed

The only thing that might have changed this outcome? Parent(s) who cared.

Yeah, I wish I had that….

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 284 - leonmacedon ( Leon Enovwo )

Nigerian Fiction Title 124

The Glo signboards on the street lamp poles are not quite the right shade to be festive green, but in your mind, its ok. It doesn’t matter. At this point, certain shades of blue would be passable as festive green. The corny, over used excuse ‘Its Christmas!’ springs to mind to forgive any discrepancies in colour matching. Everything just seems warm and quiet and peaceful. For a second, you close your eyes to enjoy the hum of the 4x4 around you, the traditional carols playing quietly over the radio, the slight sway of the car as the driver deftly swerves to avoid a pot hole. Ahh, but everyone knows even a moment is all it takes in Lagos.

The car screeches to a halt.

Looking at the Glo signboards again, the green seems all the more festive. The red splashed across the sign so that it now says ‘lo’ not Glo, was all that was missing. The blood dripped richly down the post into a puddle on the road. Few feet away, and unnaturally still, lay an unknown man. The police man standing over him, with his shiny black and smoking friend in his hand stared as if blind. ‘Oga do Christmas for us now!’ his words from only moments ago register in your mind. The memory of the loud bang that followed those words shook you, even only as a memory. The crumpled Naira bills falling silently from the policeman’s palm are the only things moving on this silent night. Too late to regret his celebratory gun shots, he continues to stare.

Christmas in Lagos; magical, breath taking, life changing. Life taking. It’s Christmas. It’s Lagos. These things happen. Don’t they?

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1 Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction member 127 - LittleMissSunshine

2 Nigerian Fiction title 122

Mrs Delphine was my therapist. My mom had dropped me off this morning and planted a kiss in front of my head; somehow wishing and hoping for a miracle. I didn't even know I was possessed. Her office was vague. She had piles of files, resting on the cold white marble floor. There was also a cabinet in disarray, a safe marked “Confidential”, the curtain drapes were white too, they stood firm, like the humble breasts of a village maiden. She sat with her legs crossed and her head tilted to her left. A woman in her early forties, consumed up to a frame of 5foot. She had slick blonde hair; her face was out in perfection. She had high cheek bones and her brows were shaped in a way it showed the beauty of her oval face. As the light from the white bulbs collided with the glimpse of the morning sun; her face glowed. Her furniture was of white fabrics, the herms were made in beige cream but the throw pillows were purely white with no herms. I was still crying. The tears were warm, and they just kept flowing; like the rain that fell last night. I remember the cold shivers that ran up my spine. I didn’t let in light. I wanted to dwell in the darkness; the darkness that followed me from Kano. The same darkness that was absent in the purity of the northerners white garment. It was this darkness that formed a knot in my throat, it couldn’t be parried; couldn’t find any escape. This darkness that followed me into this white office, yet it couldn’t be seen by any other person. This darkness on my skin. I tried to curb it, to reduce more sniffs, or get my mouth to shut. Her office was cold and had the same tension of the American embassy years ago when we won the visa lottery.

“I’m okay” I replied with a hoax voice. My throat, gulping into my lungs; stiffening the air that was supposed to come out freely.

“Was that all that happened in the spring? Your mother is seriously worried about you, Tha.” She asked as she dropped the glass of water on the glass table. It was all the noise there was in the entire room. There was just silence.

“I told her I was fine. I didn’t need her spending $80 an hour” My voice was raised. I felt it could crack her fragile skin. Or swing the heavy curtain drapes.
"Well you are here now and you might as well start speaking" She suggested.
I couldn't say a word. I just sat down; watching a tiny little ant crawl to the edge of the wall.

The noise coming from the streets of Newyork made its way to my brain. It was tangling with my emotions and my thoughts. How could people breathing the same air with other people, prevent them from breathing further? My mind raced back to the in the before of April. The road from the airport to Uncle Isa’s house. The swift voice of the Fulani girl singing on the radio. The way Uncle Isa’s driver, Tanko, waved at almost everyone in the traffic as if they’ve all shared a bowl of ice-cream and popcorn at a cinema. The way the people of Kano lived their lives in such simplicity. The streets were not as busy and littered up with snack wraps as it was in Lagos. I remember that night, the night before the color of palm oil made more sense to me than the redness of Vegetable soup. The night Idris held my hand so tightly, I could feel his blood flowing. The night I noticed the cut on his eye brows, it was slant, like it was carefully cut with a razor blade. That night after dinner, at the backyard when we argued about the pre-colonial system of Nigeria.

“The white men have refused to accept that we had a system of government before they came”. His voice was deep, like if it was the ocean; I wouldn’t know its depth.

“But technically, it wasn’t written. It was more like a way of life.” I said.

“That is my point”. His voice went louder. “We had a way of life. Things were simple, we saw white as white and not as a faded cream color”.
His knees touched mine as we sat near the grass. He moved farther before speaking. Maybe he felt an extra pulse in his tummy or chest. Maybe he felt my heart beating through my knees.
“When the white men came; they had a bible; we had a land. Now we have a bible and they have our land”.

I wondered if the sound of my beating heart was louder than my voice. I wanted to be gentle while speaking; I didn’t want to be deep. I didn’t want to be with him.

We argued further that night until we both couldn’t hear the croaking of the toad. The stars were spread across the deep blue sky like glitters; they were so high but something in me felt that if Idris could stand up; he could reach out for one. Something also told me that if he was able to reach out and squeeze out one of the stars in sight; he will give it to me.

“What do you feel”? Mrs Delphine asked. “Your mom told me your cousins and uncle were affected by the Muslim riot…..what do you feel?

The air between us hung low, I felt like I could reach out for it and squeeze it, that maybe if I squeezed it hard enough, I could extract enough that could bring back Uncle Isa and his family. To bring back Idris so I could feel the dangling sensation in my ears at the sound of his voice. So I could feel my palms go wet when his breath hovers around me. That if the air, didn’t hang too far away on that Saturday morning, that the little girl who lay on the floor with her eyes wide open, could reach out to it and breathe.

“I don’t feel….Its silence. Its silence. Everywhere I turn, everywhere I go…its silence. Stillness” I replied amidst sobs

“Silence is a natural language my dear. A child just born speaks this and the mother understands right away…”

“But I’m not a child anymore. I’m 16years old”. I snapped. “She was a child. The little girl who lay by the road side as people stepped on her to run for their dear lives. SHE was a child. I’m the teenager who couldn’t help her. Who couldn’t help her have her next candy or watch her next cartoon or get to build sand castles. I’m the teenager and it was just catapult.” I concluded with my voice raised, holding unto the firm stitches on the arm of the chair with a tissue on my left hand.

“Good. We have been able to put a name to it. Guilt.” She said and played with the pen on her hands.

I wanted to hide away; look for a darkness somewhere in this white, bright office. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t walk away. That I didn’t see her eyes; the eyes of the little girl at the corner of the road, piercing into my soul and ripping walls apart in my head. I wanted to forget the kiss from in the before. That moment when our lips touched and our world changed. I could feel him; the air in his mouth wasn’t as deep as his voice. It was fragile and I could feel him. I could taste him. I was him for that moment. Idris knew where to touch and what to say. It was like a dream with a foreign interpretation; I didn’t want to know the meaning but it felt good. My hands rested on his chest while his grabbed a fistful of my hair. He pulled me closer; held me tighter, as if it was the last time. I gladly fought for control with him; our minds branding the feelings into our soul.

I felt tears welling up my eyes and for a split second..I thought it was palm oil.

“What would you have done Agatha?”

I looked away, and wiped the tears off my face with the back of my index finger.

“Miss Bell-low?” Her voice; a little harsh with her American accent. “Is there something you feel you should have done better?

It was a bright Saturday morning on the day of the post-epection violence. The trees were true in their colors, the birds of the air were swift in their rhythms, the cloud was white, pure, like cotton wool soaked in water. The morning sun shone and spread a shade under the cashew tree in Uncle Isa’s compound. It was a 4 bedroom duplex; the flowers were leveled smoothly and looked free of pests. I walked over to the hibiscus and smelled it, I wandered how something as lifeless as a flower could engage me in long stares.

“Do you believe in flowers”? A male voice said behind me. He was close, too close, like he was sucking the air from my ears. I wondered why I didn’t notice him. The hibiscus smelled lovely.

“Believe in flowers?” I turned to ask him. He was wearing khaki short and a ManU jersey.

“Yes. They have lives. I believe they’re spirits too. That is why I spend so much time on them. My name is Segun. I’m the gardener.
“Oh, you are.” I replied with sarcasm.

He was a dark average looking guy with pimples all over his forehead. He smiled with ease and spoke with confidence.

“Hibiscus flowers serve many purposes. Some people work this plant into a hedge, so that blooms will poke out here and there at random. But for me? being surrounded by these flowers….it brings peace.” Segun said.

“They are beautiful. You must work so hard to keep them this gorgeous. Look at them!” I commended as I bent to smell them again.

A smile escaped the brace of his dark dry chin. Something told me his heart was racing and his toes were going wet in anxiety. He was blushing.

The black firm gates that were adjourned with barb wires went open and a Nissan vehicle drove in. My cousin Idris, had stepped out to buy bread from the bakery. It was the first thing on the list of things to do that day. I was supposed to be in Kano for only 3days and they all wanted to give me a memorable holiday. A holiday that was cut short by the post election violence. Later that day; when the hibisucs blossomed with the help of the golden sun, people were encircled, raided and hacked to death and homes burnt.

“Do you believe in colors”? I asked Mrs Delphine.

She took a deep sigh. “You tell me. Do you relate to colors?

“Your office is white. No color. This is just me trying to figure out if they have lives like flowers. Hibiscus flowers”

“White is pure. It helps you breathe. Can you breathe properly? Your mom said you don’t sleep at night’

“Well, I have a psychology class. I do all the sleeping there is to do while Mr Fitz is teaching. No big deal” I said

“I think you’ve shoved your feelings away for too long. Since you came into the states…since after the ordeal in Africa....I think you’ve been in a box. I’m asking you to come out of it. I’m asking you to claim your feelings…take..”

“Take what?” I snapped. “Take responsibility for the death of my cousins? For the death of my uncle? For the palm oil…the blood on that little girl’s face?” I shook my head continuously till it felt like it was threatening to run out of my neck.

“I made them go to the park. They were trying to host me perfectly so when I’m coming back, I could get them all the things in the list they secretly gave me the night I arrived Kano. I made them leave their house. I know all these things…in my dream, there’s a river bank… and behind it are ghosts. They remind me every night. I know my feelings and if I spurt it out…if they leave the tight brace of my guts…there would be no purity….no form of whiteness in this office. So don’t sit there in your 800$ retailed Louboutin shoes and act like you know me down to the lines on my palms. This is not a vintage piece…it is not an article…it’s not….Its palm oil. It’s everywhere”
My knees went week, like the weight of all I’ve been bottling deep down was compressing it. It was slowing me down mentally and I was unaware. My sobs went loud; like the chanting of the rioters, the way the glasses of vehicles, shops and houses fell into a million pieces when stones, rocks and sticks hit them. It was loud like the men screaming in victory, when they stepped over dead bodies; the evil men that threw a cutlass around Uncle Isa’s neck while I watched from beneath the car. I lay flat under a car for so long that I didn’t know when I wet my pants.

“Good.” Mrs Delphine said. Her words wrapped around a huge smile spreading down her chin; so wide, I thought it could reach her ears. “You need to let go. These feelings; you’re at war with them and it looks to me that you’re not anywhere near the finish line”

“Please ma’am, no talks about war” I replied. My eyes tightening with every word.

She stood up and walked to the corner of her office, footsteps echoed footsteps. Her legs were curved to a bow, and the high-waist skirt made her hips amount to a bag of rice. Her shoulders were straight, and she walked in a way that her hand didn’t swing as she pulled one foot in front of the other. I wondered if she was going to cry.

Having breakfast with Idris, Amina and Azeez wasn’t the same as having breakfast in my house in Lagos. They were allowed to talk while eating and pass criticisms on whoever set the table. That morning, we were talking about my appointment with the American Embassy; how the woman who interviewed me saw my inner parts and intestines with just her eyes. They laughed easily. At my exaggeration and blunts words. At the people at the American Embassy and at the simple mispronunciation of words by the Fulani radio presenter as we drove to the park that Saturday. In the small space between Idris and I at the back seat of their Nissan Maxima, he held my hand tightly, not letting go till we pulled into the park. The clouds didn’t look like cotton wool anymore like it did in the morning. It looked a pale blue….Like the ocean…like the river bank.

Mrs Delphine came back in, holding a bunch of flowers. She had a flat tummy and she was constantly obsessing over the length of her skirt as she walked the short distance to the white cushion.

“What…who is that for?” I asked surprised.

“This flower comes in many colors, ranging from pale pink to dazzling vermillion. Some are vibrant yellow, others clear orange….”

“And where does my relationship with it come in?” I cut her short.

After taking yet another huge sigh, she moved closer to me, shifting to the edge of her seat and said. "There’s no white in this. Just bright colors. Think of it as the rainbow…or the sunlight. Which ever way, it signifies a new beginning for you. You need to let go of the things you couldn’t change, Agatha. No one’s asking you to be pure…to be white…Just be colored. Take.

My hands went numb. There was no sensitivity. No flow of blood. I couldn’t take it. There was red and there was orange in the flower bouquet. Fresh palm oil; old palm oil. I just couldn’t move my joints and reach out for it. I was used to the darkness and it knew my name well enough to yell in my brain. The voices of the ghosts behind the river bank; they knew my name well enough too and they yelled fiercely.

“Miss Agatha Agnes Bell-low. Its okay to be scared. But the minute your fear exceeds what you can take; you need to break loose. This darkness has a name. This darkness is not your shadow so I believe you can outrun it. “ She said with her eyes full of compassion.

“And what am I going to do with this? Take it to the museum? I asked rhetorically with a hint of sarcasm.

“Do you believe in flowers”? She asked.

“I believe they all have their purposes” I replied with the feeling of de javu, swamped in my head.

“Good. Now take this and start your healing process. That is the purpose. And while you’re at it; don’t forget to smell it.

The bell that went off as I waited to see Mrs Delphine an hour ago went off again and I knew I had exhausted my period with her. I knew she was about to see another client. I took the flower in my hand as shocks ran through my vein. I was getting cold in my bones. I was feeling heavy. I wondered if the darkness multiplied or it was the addition of colours. The bell rang until she hit a tiny red button on her table. For once I didn’t associate any form of noise with my experience in Kano. My experience from in the before. For once I didn’t hear the men laughing and the innocent children; crying their guts out as vehicles collided with vehicles. I didn’t hear the sirens of the police cars and ambulances coming 5hours after the heat of the riot; coming to harvest dead bodies from the peeks of the dry ground. I heard church bells instead, and all I could do was picture myself in a white dress; years from now, walking down the aisle on my wedding day and holding tightly unto this flower bouquet in the brace of my palms. I felt a warm feeling light up my heart, forcing the corners of my mouth upwards, as if they were trying to get closer to the sun.

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1 Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction member 240 - Edithsmiles (Kecy Francis-Anosike)

2 Nigerian Fiction title 119

Mum was frying akara in the kitchen as that was what we ate every Saturday night.I could hear her singing as she put scoops of the light brown liquid substance into the deep frying pan.

Esan, my brother, was getting ready to release the dogs as it was getting dark and dinner was almost ready. My father taught my brother how to feed, clean and pet those animals like they were humans. He would say "" son, treat them like they are your kids"" I wonder why he never taught me how to take care of them.

"" Adanma!"" Screamed mother as she was setting the table and talking to my dad "" Bia! Come and eat your dinner oo!, you don't want it to be cold"". I rushed down the stairs tripping on my dad's shoes, i couldn't wait to devour my mother's delicious akara.

Suddenly, there was a heavy knock on the door. We were all silent. Who could be knocking at this time and how did they pass through the gate?!. My father quietly but quickly stood up to get my mother's mortar signalling to her to lead my brother and me to the kitchen store. She said "" Do not move and if you hear any scream. Be quiet"". A cold shiver ran down my spine, the words felt like her last command.

My father tapped my mother and they went to the door. I could hear my dad telling my mum to open it slowly. I held my ears waiting and expecting the worse, i felt my brother's arm around me protecting me from the dreadful and traumatic noise that would be heard soon.

A loud knock followed by a loud shriek was heard and then dead silence. I covered my mouth and bit my lips so i wouldn't scream. The there was silence.. AGAIN.

Footsteps were heard and suddenly there was a soft knock on the door... the kitchen store's door.I looked at my brother and for the first time saw fear in his eyes, he held me tight and put his finger in my mouth so i bit them. It was his way of telling me to be quiet.

The door sprung open and there standing with a smile on her face was.. my mother. I left my brother's arm and jumped into her's, kissing her face as tears fell from my eyes. ""Don't cry my ada, everything is alright"" she said. Father walked into the store and carried my brother who was paralyzed from fear. They took us to the dinning table and mother proceeded in sharing the akara on our plates.I looked around the house for any signs of another presence... NONE.

My brother and I looked at our parents, who were smiling and laughing. We were confused as to why they were acting as if nothing happened. ""Mama,who came to visit? and who screamed?"" asked my brother. "" Esan, stop talking, your food might get cold"" said my father.

We gave each other confused looks and my brother shrugged,since we were fine then nothing happened. I caught my mother staring at me and smiled at her, she winked. I blushed and concentrated on my food forcing myself not to focus on the blood stains on the side of her lips.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 303 - Nia

Nigerian Fiction Title 121

It was the 12th of February 1974, it had rained heavily in the morning, leaving termites to fly all around the compound, when Ikemefuna came home, smelling like a stranger. He didn't go out with his Celica ,it had a little problem with the gear box. I had stayed awake after watching my favourite TV Show with my neighbour waiting for him so I wanted to be certain that if he was sleeping around he would have the decency to do it with a girl who could afford a Vera Wang wedding dress. Not like i bought mine with my money, but my elder sister's friend niece, used it during her wedding, 5 years ago. He smelled of a new soap; it was cheap. It wasn’t the Aloe Vera we used at home. So I let him enter the house as I made my way to the kitchen. That night I didn’t meet him, the devil smelled all over him so instead, I added too much salt to his meal, and he ate, while I faced the other side of the bed.

The next morning was a Saturday. As I made akara in the kitchen, ‘Funa scrubbed the living room and cleaned up his car. i didn't see the need of cleaning a car that he hasnt used for 4months, because before the end of the day, mama Ikenna's last son will inscribe 'IN NEED OF SERIOUS WATER; PLEASE WASH ME' .We hadn’t spoken since he came home last night. When all was done, I couldn’t bottle up my emotions. I was mad and it had to be now.

“You good for nothing pig” you come home at midnight, smelling like a whore you picked at the market bus-stop and you have not a word to utter from the same mouth you used to kiss her. Tell me. How was her makeup? Did she wear a red lipstick? Was it pink? Or nude? Or she couldn’t afford any. Tell me now Ikemefuna Okafor before the neighbors come out to separate us.”

“What in the name of the devil are you talking about?” He replied with a raised eyebrow. I already had my hand on his collar as he tried to calm me down. He went further to explain how he walked all day and on his way back, he stopped at the chemist at Okigwe Road to get me a valentine gift. He said he had been out picking a fragrance for me and that was why he smelled the way he did. He wanted to surprise me. He bought it for 4Naira. I was wowed. I knew better not to believe a man who came home late at night with a different smell, but ‘Funa had saved his money to get me this fragrance. He had to walk back home on foot. It was perfect. It was the most romantic thing he has ever done since he un-hooked my bra on our wedding night.

It was the morning. The sweetest aroma embraced the air; the birds chiming, syncing, and rhyming. The radio stations couldn’t stop saying it. The young boys on our streets already washed their clothes a day before, the bachelors cleaned up their cars and married woman smiled as they went to the market. The bucket I left outside caught lots of termite. I paid little attention to it for I thought about the day ahead. ‘Funa did nothing; he played slow sweet music of the legendary Michael Bolton. He kissed me as I woke up, his eyes piercing, discovering the loneliness in my eyes. It was the first time he has kissed me before I had brushed my teeth. I kissed him also, but it was quick, as I had to line up to fetch water from the public bore-hole. It was Valentine’s day. The 14th of February 1974. The last morning I saw ‘Funa. The last morning I kissed him. And it was a goodbye kiss on Valentine’s day. The morning before life goes on.

“He said : ""Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always. A promise, like a reward for persisting through life so long alone. Belief in each other and the possibility of eternal love. A decision to ignore simply rise above the pain in the past. A covenant, which at once binds two souls and yet severs prior ties. The celebration of the chance taken and the challenge that lies ahead. For two will always be stronger than one. Like a team braced against the tempest of the world. And love will always be the guiding forces in our lives. For tonight is mere formality. Only an announcement to the world of feelings long held. Promises made long ago in the sacred spaces in our hearts”

The road leading to town was busy. Buses parking in the middle of the road to pick customers, traders selling heart shaped teddy bears on the sidewalks.One could hear the sound of flies buzzing from the meat market as people bargained to get fare prices. It was the day I wore the red dress. It was his favorite dress; I had worn it the day we met. I wore it for him one more time to spark the magic. I knew I looked fantastic, no lipstick, just as he liked it, and his mother’s ring. Pretending we were Romeo and Juliet. But the one thing I wouldn’t be able to pretend about is our final fight. His fears of letting me go; the people can barely see the marks his fingers left on my neck; holding me, loving me.

""I feel like.......I'm moving in slow motion. Like I'm moving in slow motion and everything around me is moving so fast and I just want to go back....to when things were normal. When I wasn't the poor widow who murdered her husband. But I am; so I can't. And I'm Just stuck. And there's all this pressure cause everyone is hovering around me, waiting for me to do something or say something or flip out or yell or cry some more.....but i don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be this person. I don't know who this person is.""

“I will like to take your orders, Oga”

The waiter at the Imo Concorde Hotel said. He wore a red bow tie. I wandered if he had a valentine. Or if he was cursing the stones because he had to work on such a lovely day. I also noticed that he had funa's check bones. Strong and proud.

“Oh yes, I will have rice & salad” I replied, as my jaw almost dropped while ‘Funa squeezed my hand. His touch warm, but like ice; sending shivers up my arm. I couldn’t believe I could be on earth, but have an angel sit across me.

Funa didn’t place an order. He said he’d watch me eat.

But knowing funa and his appetite, I figured that he couldn’t afford lunch for two at this exquisite hotel, so he wanted only me to eat. I looked over to the table by our right and i saw this very pretty young ladies, in her 20's accept to an old eye-burgling man's proposal. He was too old he couldn't stand up to kiss her hand, as funa did. Then Ikemefuna kissed my left hand,as if to draw my attention to his beautiful gaze. It was beautiful.

""“Help! Help! We need help here. My wife is still breathing.” Help! Smoke filled the whole room, children and mothers lay burnt like waste products at Uratta housing estate. It was the last thing I remember, the lights going out and noises rising from different sections of the hotel. I couldn’t see red. I saw black burnt bodies in blur vision. ‘Funa was holding my neck, for some reason, trying to get people to come to my aid. His strong palms gave me a scar.”""

The fire started from the kitchen, it spread right through the lounge and into the restaurant I saw the old eye-bulging man leave his lover to run for his dear life. A mother tripped as she tried to make way for her 5kids to flee from their table. I couldn’t see the fire on time, but I saw blood. Noise was everywhere. I was caught up in the conversation with funa. He told me sweet little stories of mermaids and cartoons. He told me about playing hide and seek in his village while growing up. Then the fire reached the table close to us. It was spreading. I became hot.

The Imo Concorde hotel was set ablaze by unknown people. It claimed the lives of 267people, with only 3 survivors. The fire lasted for about 45minutes before it was put out, one lady who survived was found under her husband’s body. Rumor has it that the man lay on top of her to shield her from the fire. Nothing has been said about compensating the victims. Barrister Emeka Chidubem survived as well as Mrs Igwe and the lady saved by love…Mrs Paulina Ikemefuna-…….”""

The radio stations couldn’t stop saying it, the women on the streets couldn’t stop gossiping, and the lovers in my town couldn’t stop whispering. It was the most tragic thing in the history of love in my town.

I couldn’t stand hearing the presenter complete the name. My husband is dead. He died before he could watch the sunset with me. Before he could teach our un-born baby how to hunt and wrestle. I was finally at home, staring at the bottle of fragrance ‘Funa bought for me, it has only been 24 hours and I’ve walked through the hottest part of hell and back, I made my way through the door, and headed out. I walked 3hrs, 279kl. It was cold. The rain poured heavily, as if to mean that ‘Funa has been received by the Angels. The Angels of love. When I got to the supermarket, I handed the perfume over to the shop assistant. She spoke under her breath, something in Igbo. She was from Anambra so I couldn’t pick so much out of what she said, but I was sure she was talking about me. Suddenly, I had become more famous than Zik within a period of a woman's child labour. I didn’t give her a second look. She was smiling like a baby born at the General Hospital where only the rich go to; wearing a red dress with a black hat. I wandered if her boyfriend took her out. I was jealous. Jealous of the smile across her face, Jealous of the fact that Funa paid too much concentration on this day. Jealous that her red dress had more glitters than mine. It wasn’t all so much in the end. I returned the un-used perfume ‘Funa gave me and stormed out. I spent the night before life goes on, walking home in the rain to an empty room, an empty bed, trying to remember our last kiss; while singing the sweet songs of the legendary Michael Bolton.

I believe in true love. I believe in love at first sight. I believe love conquers all. and that doesn't mean there's not gonna be hard days or difficult things to deal with, because there will be. but finding that person who does it for you and knowing that person loves you back; it just makes everything so much easier. Love can be strong; we are forced to feel every emotion; both good & bad. Love. The day you start thinking that love is overrated is the day you're wrong. The only thing wrong with love and faith and belief is not having them.

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1 Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction member 240 - Edithsmiles (Kecy Francis-Anosike)

2 Nigerian Fiction Title 103

I shared a room with my siblings, Kelechi; my 18year old brother, who studied part-time Business studies at the Yaba College of Education, while working for a pure water factory in Maryland; a tall dark boy, with a voice so deep, it could make a baby cry. His legs were formed in a way it curved a bow as he walked or stood erect. Chidera; My sister, who tried continuously had to move further than SS2 at the Government school close to our mothers shop. A girl of perfect frame, with a low cut and rather noticing forehead. She was an average height with black spots visible through the scanty hairs growing on her legs. She had carried a pair of basket ball shorts—irrespective of the way boys on our street laughed at her for being too hairy. She once threw a stone at a boy, whose mother sold provisions on the street behind us for referring to her as an ape with round breasts--and a blouse, unseemly normal for the seminar she told us she had after school into her school bag before leaving the house. She also painted her nails green the night before; the color of the fungi on the walls of our bathroom.

Our house was a small apartment with no flowers or beautiful paintings. It was a faded cream colored house, on a very busy street in Obanikoro; with naked wines entangled into each other, making the birds have different location asides the windows of our living room. The houses opposite ours were occupied with lots of families sharing a room and the stench from each house increased as the women gave birth to more children. The Yoruba people were kind to us; letting us borrow their cutlass and rakes after they were through with it on environmental Saturdays. We used it to take care of the stubborn weeds that grew occasional, behind our house and in the dry gutter, right in front of the building. We also thought them how to cook stew with palm oil and kernel when the price of groundnut oil and tomatoes hiked.

“Hello is this Ihemanma?” the male voice on the other line had said.

“Yes, this is she.” I said bending my neck to rest the phone on my shoulders, while I brushed my hair. “Who am I speaking to please?

“My name is Dr Kenneth from House of Grace Hospital Palmgroove” He said as he cleared his throat. He sounded like he had a cold or couldn’t wait to drop the phone to continue having his food. “I don’t know how to put it but….”

I imagined him pausing to send one spoon to his mouth again. He must be married; and his wife must be a delicious cook just like mama “Yes, I’m hearing. What is it”? I had grasped the phone firmly with my right hand; pulling my hair to a ponytail.

“Well, your mother collapsed” He answered; Sounding more ascertain. “I’m sorry, I went to the restaurant to buy my lunch and she just collapsed”. After a second pause, he continued “I had to bring her here. She insisted that I call you and said you should go and take care of the shop, that her houseboy…”

I hung up and ran out through the door leaving the keys under the foot mat.

As I walked 5miles to my mother’s restaurant I thought about her and the way she must be feeling. A rush of negative thoughts overwhelmed me and I questioned her not wanting to see me yet till I’m done with the shop. Could she be dying this time around? Am I making the right decision by listening to her and not going to the hospital? It wasn’t a surprise to me. I knew my mother has been suffering from Asthma since the first day she lost her breath in the PTA meeting of my primary school, 3years ago. My best friend; whose mother worked in a bank and lived in a 5bedroom duplex on the island; had gone home to research on the internet. After she told me all the symptoms and I drew the lines connecting it to what Mama has been experiencing.

“Ihe, I’m very sorry, but I think your mother might be dying.” Crystal said, giving me a white sheet of paper, with information written in black ink “Here, this will help you understand better. She doesn’t have enough time” I slapped her—why I did that; I don’t know. I just felt so much anger that I had to explode it on her for being the one to tell me that mama was soon going to join papa--and we never spoke again till the end of primary 6. Two years later I heard she died of Asthma.

Filled with the frenetic restlessness of my 15years, I ran almost half the journey in the brisk air. The sun reflected and made the green flowers brighter; I hadn’t noticed the flowers before. I reduced the pace of my steps as I pulled into the street. The okada riders swinging through a slice of space between yellow buses and private cars only made me more nervous. The honks from impatient drivers on a traffic light and excruciating heat from the sun light began to give me a headache. I walked into my mother’s shop where she sold beer, cigarette, nkwo-bi, isi-ewu and pepper soup to men who had nothing better to live for than a stick of cigarette and a strange woman caressing their belle while listening to Igbo high-life or discussing politics. I promised myself each day that I will be an Advocate for women’s right; at least get the girls who came to the restaurant --wearing bare clothing to cover only their breasts and leave their navel in the cold-- receive education to a certain level and guide their dignity with heads held high.

My mother’s shop was next to a big orange tree, and a small wooden plank went across the gutter to make an entrance. There was a mat, with “Jesus is Lord” but the rat that came from the gutters had taken away all the “s” in the phrase. There were plastic white chairs and tables; some were pure white and others had brands of Telephone companies on them. It was a large space and had posters of Guinness, Benson & Hedges and a large picture of Mary; the mother of Jesus. Under the frame had “Anuis deiu qui tobis necatar mundi dona nobis pacem” written on it in italics. There was an old lady, just across the shop who sold recharge cards under an umbrella that kept making faces at the women who came out from big cars with old men and walked into the shop with their hands around their waist. At the right corner of the shop, were chairs made out of black leather and had aluminum legs. It was marked “VIP” with a red marker and a white cardboard, which was placed with a yellow tape and had traces of cob-webs. The customers over there all looked wealthy and important, the men dressed in suits and native attires from expensive Ankara. Each table was clothed in a sparkling white tablecloth and I just knew I was going to spill things on all these people’s laps. There was also a little radio in the center of the restaurant, on a table where a small saucer with toothpicks and a big sized “Morning Fresh” was placed. The walls were a faded white color with rough dots on it.

An old Yoruba looking man; the head shop boy, showed me the layout of the kitchen and the drinks section, a flat metal blue table stacked with dirty plates. He flung the dirty utensils, forks and knives with fury into this gray murky basin of water with a discolored look and rough chunk of yellow mattress sinking deep. Some of the utensils first ricocheted off the wall. There was no way I was going to copy his style. I cleared dirty dishes from the table into an empty cartoon of Guilder beer, learning to balance it with my hands as I lifted it to a table, vaguely stained with the blackness of a burnt bottom pot.

“Does this goat head have any onions in it?” The old man who came with the fair girl wearing jeans so low; I could trace the hole in her buttocks from the revealing line, asked frowning at the steam; coming from the plate with pieces of vegetables and substances; the color of light purple. “I’m very allergic to onions”

“Of course there is” Pointing to the light purple substances chopped in circles.

He shook his head in disagreement.

“Allergic to onions? I didn’t even know there was such a thing” I said as I rolled my eyes at the girl next to him; so furiously my eyelashes threatened to fall off.

The Yoruba man had come from my back, cleaning his hands on the much stained apron he wore. I wondered why he thought that doing so will make it clean; when he only made it more dirty.

“Yes sir, it has.” He said, taking the plate away from the table, handling it over to me while giving me a look. I opened my mouth and left it for more than a second; wandering what I did wrong to receive such wicked stares.

“Can we get you pepper soup?” The Yoruba man said. As he signaled to me by pushing his head to the direction of the kitchen. “We have it very hot and that would be much better, considering the clouds raging from a distance. Don’t you think?”

From the wooden door in the kitchen, hanged downwards; leaving the up open to take orders from customer, I saw the fair girl rush to sit on his lap in something that looked like anxiety. “That big fool” I thought in my mind. How could she be excited while sleeping with someone old enough to retire to the village? She has no shame to even lock her lips on his in public. Mama will kill me if my ghost ever thought of doing this. The Old man brought out a bundle of 500naira notes as I watched the Yoruba man, smile sheepishly and gaze on the space in between the fair girl’s breast before walking towards the kitchen.

“All these Igbo men that earned a living from duping people at the Alaba International Market” I thought to myself. They only know how to spend it like goats eating leaves; never expecting to get hungry with the abundance of trees everywhere.

My brother Kelechi; had said “That is the only place where an Igbo man is the king in this whole Lagos” when we talked about how much damage; the fake DVD CDS have caused our DVD players.

“I do not know what they hope to gain, deceiving people” I had said with so much agony in my voice.

“Deceiving people you say?” He asked, while seating up on our 6x6 mattress, which lay in the center of a large and empty room.

“Yes. We bought this CD at 150naira. It hasn’t played enough for me to read the title on the TV screen before it starts to crack”

Iwas very angry; it was 3weeks after Christmas and my late father’s brother had given me the money to buy knockout. I felt it was a waste of money; literally lighting a match to a piece of value, so I put it in an old used tin of Milo and kept it for 15days. I was extremely terrified when the CD didn’t play above 30seconds.

“That is how they make their money” He said as he killed the mosquito perching on his lap and showed me how much blood it had sucked and began to laugh “The economy is tough. Nobody is keeping his or her feeling in the comfort of their heart. Every human conscience has jumped out of our bones; man is against man for the quest to have pieces of papers with another fellow man’s picture on it. We are their mumu’s for today” He said and clapped his hands into the air.

“So in other words you’re on team corruption?” I asked, making my way to the cupboard to get out Baygon.

“Don’t be paranoid”. He said as he closed the windows that made noises like sounds heard at an accident scene.

“I’m just saying this is Nigeria; any opportunity to make ends meet must be utilized. Nobody gives a kobo and half to what you think about their decisions, they make their money, spend it on Mama’s shop and end up putting clothes on our body, tattered roofs over our head and bed bug ridden pillows under our neck” He said as we laughed at his attempt to doubt my ability to wash away sketches of saliva on our pillows properly.

“And besides, my girlfriend’s brother owns a shop there”. He added before we left the room as the choking smell of the insecticide, smoked across.

The light breeze from the open window sent chills running up and down my spine. It’s not that the air was cold for a January day; it was rather warm in fact. It’s just that my nerves were so fragile, so on-edge, that any more unexpected movement up and down this building will quench my beating heart. The evening came in no time, the sun was varnished and the chipping of birds in the air ceased. I had stayed in my mother’s shop for almost 7hours and my sister; chidera who was supposed to meet me after school and help out was nowhere to be found. I went and sat close to the table---the finest girls that escorted the rich men were---on a small stool made of old brown wood. They wore fancy shoes and their hair smelled nice; like bubble gum. The table was surrounded with 6 men; only one of them didn’t have an underage girl feeding him suya with a tooth pick as they talked and drank beer with the ground filled with cigarette butts. Their discussion eluded my attention.

The man who wore a white Senegalese native and drove in a Mercedes jeep talked the loudest with a heavy Igbo accent “We must do everything within our power to avert the dangers that loomed ahead for Biafrans, the threat of extermination of our history. What Nigeria as a country has failed to achieve is there for the whole world to see. We have made certain mistakes in the course of this journey; these are mistakes of the head and never of the heart. “He said as he banged the table to ruffle the white tablecloth that was now a pale brown from all the alcohol spilled on it “We must be able to overcome the greater interest of our people in mind”

I closed the novel I was engaged in and rested my jaw on my palm.

”We will never forget our history and the souls of all our lost heroes and heroines” Said the man wearing a black cowboy hat. His own girlfriend was very ugly and when she smiled, her tongue was visible through the large gap in-between her tooth “Not only those that died between 67-70, but for all that have lost their lives during the curse of our freedom. We are coming towards the end of the tunnel and there’s a bright light there”

“This shouldn’t be about the Igbos alone. The mistakes were made by us all and we are now repeating them again, we can live together. We are human beings. No more war so that the blood of those shed in the past will not be in vain” argued the man with the tribal mark on his cheek.

“We need our own nation Period” said another man while standing. “If southern Sudan can vote for a referendum, why can’t Biafrans vote? Our independence is long overdue. We are not Nigerians; rather Nigerians are our neighbors”.

A light noise arose from the statement the light skinned man, wearing a black suit and a white shoe that curved up to a pointed edge; just made. Everyone spoke at the same time and nobody heard the sound of their voices. The man that has been awfully quiet since he received a phone call and screamed at the person on the other line for delaying the arrival of his container stood up and waved his hands low to signal peace. His voice later gained supremacy and he spoke;

“It is not by raising our arms. It shouldn’t be. Our males are gone. We say no to war. If we dare again; Biafran’s show will be a child’s play to what we will see.”

The light skinned man got furious once again and pushed the girl seating on his lap; the girl with a short weave, wearing an halter neck blouse. “You sound like your ancestors are Yoruba. You sound too weak to be an Igbo man” He said as he shook his head in disappointment. “You should know that we are remembering our lost soldiers that made us heroes today, so I don’t see the reason you should wildly jump out from nowhere and ask serious men to go and rest”

“You are getting me wrong, Adindu,” The container business man said.” Biafra can never be history in our minds. It keeps coming in our everyday life. Even right here. Indeed they live, because to live in the heart of those who loves you is not death. Thus, they live; they are only asleep because they choose to pave our way. They choose to light our today with the oil of their bloods.”

“Look, Chief Okafor, the level of fear and intimidation they imposed on us in those days made us to remain marginalized even in the place we called our own. It is quite obvious we cannot pair with the Nigerians. Never!! Biafra will resurrect.” Adindu replied.

“I understand that the failures of Nigeria as a nation have increased calls for Biafra to be resurrected but I’m saying; Please, let us not get carried away” Chief Okafor said with a glass of beer in his hand:

“Biafra is not utopia. If we do get the Biafra that existed from May 67 to January 70; will the Ijaw, The Andoni, the Okirika, The Efik, The Ibibio and the smaller relative to the Igbo ethnic groups be accepted as equals to us?” He added as he counted his fingers while mentioning. “Will we not remember their alleged roles as saboteurs in the past? If on the other hand, Biafra is created from existing Igbo territory only, Can we cope without having a port? For my containers?

Everyone released a loud laugh at his selfishness. Chief Okafor continued:

“Being landlocked comes with many challenges. Also, how much influence will those Igbo men and women---who have all credibility by betraying their kith and kin for the mess of a hurriedly cooked porridge served by the elite---have in Biafra? He concluded.

The man who drove in the Mercedes jeep got the attention of the table. “All these noise you people are making is of no use. Remember Major Adekunle? A premeditated cold blooded serial killer who was personally responsible for the death of over 100,000 Ibos and walked away a free man in the end. That’s the problem. The fundamental problem of Nigeria; bad guys always win.” He said as he threw his hands to the air toward the direction of the man wearing a black suit “Ubochi, do you agree with me?”

“It’s a lesson we must learn from; a mirror we must watch too. Because of the absence of one language; love.” Ubochi said as he cut a piece of his meat with his hand and licked his fingers to a sound. “It’s the absence of love that brought about this great loss of heroes. I pray the Lord will grant eternal rest to all these martyrs of love, that their seeds will be manifested in this rotten world where hatred; leading to religious crisis has become a threat to humanity” He said with sympathy as he stretched his hand across the table to get toothpick from a saucer. The man seating on the chair adjacent to his; helped him and Ubochi smiled and said to him:

“Ikenna, you are awfully quiet today. I’m sure you cannot wait to go and ravish this smashing beauty. Or have you forgotten what Biafra is?”

Everyone laughed as if it was rehearsed; Even the ravishing beauty.

“How can I forget the war that claimed seven of my uncles, leaving only my dad to fend for his family? 40years has passed but it is still fresh like yesterday” He exclaimed as I looked at the “ravishing beauty” .she had a very big nose and looked like the girls that had their bathes at the village streams during Christmas. The very shameless type of girls. “How can I forget the innocent children massacred; Biafran’s brightest? Each time I remember the war, I weep for my dear people. The ultimate price paid by our dear heroes and the bravely of our fighters were in vein.” He signaled for a backup recital of “Abi” or “chai’—commonly said as a sign of agreement or support. When he got none; he proceeded:

”The situation that led to the war still subsists. An Igbo man is still viewed with suspicion by other members of the unholy and forced alliance called Nigeria. The roads in the south east are in shambles. No Igbo man has been found worthy to lead the country. We are, even at that; still loathed and envied like the Jews”. He said with a bit of fury and kept quiet for a moment, dipping his hands into his pocket to bring out what looked like a “was-white” handkerchief. The silence was broken with a rehearsed “abi o”. A smiled escaped the brace of his chin and he continued. “The worst is that we have continued to fight ourselves so hard too that others take us for granted’

The toads had started crocking in the gutters; flooded with water, used in washing dishes and empty cans and packets of cigarettes. The stars spread abroad the blue sky; sending down crystal linings on aluminum roofs. The only place still occupied in the entire restaurant was the “VIP” section. I felt a sudden tap caress my shoulder. It was strong and masculine. It was the old Yoruba man. The head shop boy.

“I think you should go home” He said as he stretched his hand out to take my apron. His was remarkably clean at night; but the sun revealed all the dirt on the carton-colored apron in the day.

I looked at the men across the table and listened further. Adindu was speaking with smoke burning from the cigarette in his right hand;

“One thing that just came to my mind is the songs of these great heroes that say (if I die; just pick up my boot and gun and keep fighting, till we conquer the enemy). What a great sacrifice. But I strongly believe that one day; this great foundation which lay with the blood of these great heroes shall give our children liberty.”Adindu said as he released the smoke from his mouth.

“Adindu, tell everyone who needs to hear, that the reason why there is endless bloodletting and violence in Nigeria is because those that incited and committed genocide to our kith and kins in the late 60’s were neither tried nor punished, instead they were given national honors, political appointments and huge contracts” Ikenna added as he poured more beer into his glass and watched the empty bottle roll on the ground as he dropped it.

“Well, in my opinion, for genocide to happen there must be a certain preconditions; foremost among them is a national culture that does not place a high value on human life. It has little or nothing to do with….” The Yoruba man; Femi suggested.

He was brutally cut short when Ikenna gulped his beer to a stop and said “Yes, a totalitarian society; with its assumed superior ideology is also a precondition for genocide acts. In addition, members of the dominant society must perceive their potential victims as less than fully human; as infidels, unbelievers, effete, degenerates, and racial inferiors. In themselves, these conditions are still not enough for the perpetrators to commit genocide”

Everyone on the table chorused “It’s true”; after which Femi quickly tried to make his point heard to a full stop:

“To commit genocide—the perpetrators need a strong centralized authority too and bureaucratic organization as well as pathological individuals and criminals….” Femi continued.

“Also required is a campaign of vilification and dehumanization of the victims by the perpetrators, who are usually new states or new regimes attempting to impose conformity to a new ideology and its model of society” Adindu chipped in as he checked his wristwatch and gave a sign to his girlfriend. She stood up almost immediately, leaving a nearly empty bottle of Gordon Spark on the table.

“My happiness is that one day; Biafra will be a sovereign state. It will happen soon. That is only when our brothers and sisters, who were brutally slaughtered, massacred by Nigerians and their foreign accomplices, can rest in peace. The killing of the Biafrans was the first genocide in Africa. We must be free one day” Chief Okafor said as he raised his almost empty glass of beer in the air.

“Note; the new Biafra is only for Ibo speaking areas. We don’t need saboteurs. Unity by force is slavery” He added as he looked at the man with the tribal mark and laughed.

“Ihemanma!!’ The Yoruba man hit me even harder on my shoulder. “I said you should go home now. Don’t worry, I will lock up when they leave” He said; pointing to their direction

“Are these men going to be here tomorrow?” I asked

“Oh, they are regulars. They will surely be here in the evening, after a tiring day at work. Why? Is there a problem?” He asked with an inch of concern clouding his voice.

I smiled at him. I couldn’t wait to continue the discussion tomorrow with the men in the VIP section. I will advise my mother to get more rest and I will spend each day of my JSS3’s long vacation in this restaurant; listening to the men at the VIP section talk about Biafra and how soon enough; we will all unite and have Nigerians as our neighbors. I will not borrow anything from our neighbor---Mrs Ogudimu, and when the rain is falling, I will lean on the window and I will watch her laundry---which was spread on the long twine rope outside---get soaked. I will know the names of the girls the old men came with and I will make sure they take me to their hair salon. I will learn about Biafra and I will come with a jotter and pen and seat on a low stool close to their table to hear the words their Igbo accents made sound funny. I will make sure I’m the one to serve drinks to their tables each evening, but any attempt they make to place their hands on my hips; like they did to the other girls, will only make their white hair wet and smell of beer.

“Are you okay?” He asked when I kept smiling at him without saying a word.

“Yes, I’m okay. I’m free” I replied. “Very free. I feel like a bird in the sky and a chicken in summer sun; not scared of being slaughtered. Free” I added.

“Okay fine. Start going home now; I wouldn’t want you getting into any form of danger. I don’t have liver to explain to your mother” he said as I walked him by.

As I crossed the wooden plank that was used to make an entrance into Mama’s restaurant, I heard him say “By the way; my name is Kunle”

I thought quickly about the Major Adekunle who killed thousands of people in the war. The way the light skinned man’s brow was soaked in sweat each time he talked about Major Adeekunle. His heartlessness was vividly paste on my mind and I turned back to him and said;

“I really don’t care”

After he turned his back and made his way into the kitchen; to start turning off the light bulbs, that were attracting flying insects, I ran fast into the street, that was now quiet like the mass graves of the victims of the Biafra war as the thunder roared and the rain began to pour.

In my SS1, I had grown weary of the fight and struggle of fitting in with the “Nigerians”, waiting for my beloved Biafra to walk out from its open tomb. I was waiting for the sound of a new anthem and the colors of a new flag. I have painted an imaginary flag in the back of all my notes and in the middle; I painted red—the oil of our bloods. I got a scholarship in a private boarding school that was located outside Lagos; in Ibadan to be precise and I hated every Yoruba I came across. I once poured paint from fine arts class on the clothes of the group of girls who spoke Yoruba fluently during lunch; when they spread out their laundry. I found a new role as an outcast, who rebelled against everything, those thin rich girls who lived in the island and went to England for summer holidays stood for. I spoke out against Catholicism in my catholic school. I joined the literary magazine while they played hockey during weekends. I copied notes only in government classes. I dyed my hair purple; the color of fresh onions, while they bleached their roots and on my locker—both in the hostel and in the class, I wrote boldly in italics with a red oily ink “Freedom is coming; Tomorrow

Claim Authorship

1 Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction member 240 - Edithsmiles (Kecy Francis-Anosike)

2 Nigerian Fiction Title 113

Last Sunday could have been the perfect time to say hi... I woke up terribly late that day, no thanks to Abiola who kept on ranting and ranting about this guy she was with two days earlier, I really wanted to sleep but she kept going on and on about how he had spoilt her silly bla bla yadi yada.. was I jealous??.. Maybe a little but the 'said' man was MARRIED so really it'll probably not last long...... Anyways, the tireless rant led to me ignoring my alarm when it went off and Yes I got to church later than usual...

As I stepped into church, he was the first person I saw, a smile was already forming on his face and as he was about to usher me to my seat, I took my face away and stormed past him...Maybe I was a little bit cranky, My brain was still booting and I was in no mood to put on a forced smile...

'Jadesola Jadesola'... My inner voice said sternly

'What'... I replied

'Oh nothing, Learn to take things slow'...my inner voice muttered and disappeared..

So let's just say, the long awaited conversation didn't hold that day , well not up until today after my lecturer had pasted d list of our various group members for the assigned coursework he had given....

"Jadesola"....He said

I slowly turned back, I knew he was the one but I took my time, pretended that it was a voice I had formed in my thoughts...maybe it was a dream, had I heard right??...

'Jadesola' the voice said while poking me on the shoulder...

I put on my best winsomely enticing smile and said " Bodunde, Hi"...

To be continued....

Claim Authorship

Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 254 - Betha Frost

Nigerian Fiction Title 111

Mama Caro’s puff-puff was the best; always hot and sweet. The few seconds I had to wait while Caro- her daughter wrapped it up into those black and yellow polythene bags was like eternity to me. I couldn’t wait to ‘devour’ it. In fact, the only reason I did not eat it on the road was because of those riff-raffs hanging around every corner of the streets. You know, the ‘sister, sister, is you am calling. My name is Chudi, what’s yours?’ yeah, those kind of boys. They are the same boys that are quick to make jest of you when you make the slightest mistakes. Reminds me of the day I fell face flat on the floor, as I walked home from my friend’s house.

I was wearing this pink tank top, black ¾ pants with the same shade of pink as my top taped to the rims of the pants. With my long black hair extensions tied back, I walked briskly, trying to go past unnoticed and as quickly as possible; but that wasn’t going happen. Just as I almost got Malam saka’s kiosk, I did not notice the pile of stones on the floor- the ones the little kids used as their goal post when playing football.

“Yeee.. hahaha! See our African queen for floor…”

You have no idea how embarrassed I felt. I don’t even know what hurt more, the bruises I sustained or the comments I heard them make. Thank God for Dolapo, my sister friend that was walking past just about then.

Dolapo, Dolapo, that girl.. hmm, I reserve my comment. Oh, who cares? I’m just going to say it. She’s got terrible MO (mouth odour). You could describe her as ‘drop-dead-gorgeous’, but once she speaks, everything changes. I know it’s more of a medical problem because she’s got white teeth, but still, that MO is baadd! We’ve tried talking to her about it, but she’s so defensive. And I’m reading her facebook status now ‘Husband-hunting mode activated’- good luck with that honey, but me thinks there are other issues you need to sort out first.

Talking about issues to be sorted out, I better call Damilare and let him know I can’t make it to Manchester this weekend. Ahh, he’s the true son of his father (like duh, always wondered why mum said that), he’s calling me already. “Hey Dee…”

Claim Authorship

Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 248 - Tomilola Lawal

Nigerian Fiction Title 107

I swallowed hard and waited for the shadow to take shape out of the dark cloud that overwhelmed everything else behind it. I could not see the tall raffia fence that ran round the town square or the mango trees that shadowed it. Such was the manifestation of an important supernatural, requiring enormous amounts of energy from the stage of its announcement.

The chief diviner had explained while preparing us, that the soul was the sacrifice and the dance was the invitation. A perfect sacrifice would result in a merger between the one who offers himself and the spirit who comes, granting him mystic abilities beyond his human capacity. Anything less than perfect usually resulted in a curse, depending on the visiting spirit. Insanity and death were not strangers to this domain.

I bowed low, head touching feet, welcoming the sleuth. I straightened sharply like a whip in recoil, launching myself several feet into the air and landing in another bow, arms spread eagle. I shifted on my bare feet as the shadow spread out into the air like a mist of water from a boiling lake. The formations had begun.

I had watched every three of my colleagues dance this dance, this examination from the spirit world, only nights ago. I had watched them employ their impressive talents in welcoming the spirit sleuths.

Areke, a wet fox had taken Ibi, it was the signature sleuth of her bloodline. She had always been the most spectacular of us all. Her talents had transformed her dance into the most wonderfully impressive vision; she had painted the stage by juxtaposing elements of weather and greenery in a beautiful chaotic fashion. Her sacrifice was perfect and so was her merger.

Watching Iranse, the shapeshifter had put me in a further state of defeat. He had performed a very poignant, violent dance, summoning ancestral heroes and reliving epic battles. Naturally, Aramada, the chameleon accepted his offering. So did Jegi, the termite, accept Apa, the fire-breather’s less-than-poetic but yet overwhelming sacrifice.

The flashback brought my inadequacies to surface once again. I had no talents. I had made it so far under the Chief diviner’s tutelage only because of my sharp intellect and my skill with herbs, but here, real magic was required and I fell short.

I was still in my bow when I heard a bang. My end was before me. Only a sleuth of liege status would be introduced by a thunder drum beat from the other world.

I prayed in my heart that this spirit would be merciful. Everyone else in the village square was bowed prostrate as I raised my head to meet my examiner. Such was the honour due a soul inspector of liege rank, no mortal could look at the spirit except the chosen. I was introduced to Amoye, the keen; a female white feathered owl.

She lifted her wings and they revealed the deepest black interior. I understood the paradox immediately, righteous wisdom must not be without dark cunning. She was perfect.

She turned towards me. “Alagbara ma mero”, she randomly quoted. I knew what that meant. She was hinting at the superiority of cleverness over strength. I answered her rhetoric to myself, “baba ole”. She turned to face the moon, her back to me.

I knew that I was surely to perish but the prospect didn’t seem a garish thought anymore. I would die happily under the curse of a liege sleuth. I was about to start my futile dance when she talked once more.

“Sit. Elewe, a king sits down to conquer”

I sat.

“You already know there is nothing you can do to impress me.”

I acknowledged the truth.

“There is one thing though, one thing you can do to save yourself.”

The new information did ignite the faintest spark of hope in me for I knew that there really wasn’t any salvation outside this opportunity. I closed my eyes and recited a few words of incantation to focus my mind and numb out my senses. I would impress Amoye, but from within my soul.

“I once asked a man to give himself to me, he failed, how so?”

I pondered the riddle for a moment and thought it easy to evade. The chief diviner had told us of such a man, he had been the cause of many debates. No one could really fathom the wrong doing in his obedience to the sleuth that examined him. Was it she who had plagued him with insanity? I replied.

“He refused you, enlightened one”

She replied in negation, “That would be right under certain circumstances, but he didn’t”

I was in trouble but I refused to give up. How does one obey a liege sleuth and still offend? I tried another evasion.

“It wasn’t under the circumstances of a soul inspection”. According to the story, it was, but I couldn’t find any logical reason why a merger would go wrong after the sleuth had decided to go on with it. I however remembered that a merger done under the wrong circumstances could be problematic if the diviner wasn’t one with immense talents, talents impressive enough to summon a sleuth without appointment and still be forgiven. No diviner in over two hundred years had been able to succeed at such a daunting feat. It was an inadequate answer nonetheless.

She wasn’t impressed. “This is your last chance, I shall not be kind this time”

“Elewe, give yourself to me.”

Now, I saw what my real test was. I was to be the man in the riddle. I was being commanded to accept a merger that would be the end of me. Something was wrong and I hoped that I had figured it out.

“Wise one, my courage might be the end of me, yet, I shall speak”

“Speak Elewe, and speak well, lest it be your last”

I took a deep breath and I started.

“Amoye, I shall not give myself to you because you have not given yourself to me as required by the customs of merger. A merger should be a union, not a dictation. In inspection, you are my superior, but if you accept my sacrifice, we shall be one. If you will have me come to you, I humbly ask that you give yourself to me as well, but if not, devour me as you will.”

“I refuse you, Amoye, more so, I shall rather die than lose my wits”

I opened my eyes ready for what may come, standing face to face with the mighty owl, my hair blowing in the wind as she spread her great wings.

“You do not plead for your life?”

“I do not plead”

Amoye laughed.

“I give myself to you for I cannot give myself to a coward. Will you give yourself to me?”

“I give myself to you”

Nothing else mattered as the most beautiful magic happened. Our essences merged in a myriad of mystic lights and unnamed colours. The wisdom of a thousand ages, the strategy of kings and the superior cunning of those who defeat them, the brilliance of youthful intellect, the discernment of the grey-haired, the sovereign, circumspect judgement of the spirit world all became mine as a dark ring formed round my left eye and my hair withered to a soft grey.

The merger was complete.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 215 - AfroSays ( Bankole Oluwole )

Nigerian Fiction Title 101

It was all over the news. Everywhere people jubilated over the victory of Chief Gbenga in the elections. It was a truly national celebration, no one cared what tribe the Chief was from, or whose interests he represented. At the moment, he represented freedom from military rule and ,whatever else happened, the people of the Nation were certain that normalcy was not too far away.

June 13.

On the table in front of the dictator was a half finished Merlot. The Dictator himself was calmly perusing the days papers, guaging the effects of his most recent, and by his own admission, most sublimely delivered display of power yet. He laughed gently as he read about the outrage people were expressing. ""Got you all, didnt I?"" he muttered, and picked up the bottle, guiding it towards his gap-toothed mouth.

Suddenly the door burst open and the Chief barreled in. ""Your Excellency, you promised!!""

""Gbenga"" he said, ""you startled me. Sit down""

""You said if I won, you would let me take over government. You gave your word!!""

""SIT DOWN!"" the Dictator banged the bottle on the table and the Chief started, and then sat down. His composure instantly regained, the Dictator smiled wily. ""Wine?""

""No, thanks.""

""Gbenga, Gbenga, why do you want to throw away everything now that you are so close.""

Instantly, the barely restrained tirade began again. ""Throw away everything?? I didnt have to throw it away, you already snatched it from me! Why did you do it, why did you cancel the election?!""

The Dictator shook his head. ""I didn't take anything from you. You have to understand how these things work...""

The Chief almost stumbled over himself in protest. ""I..I, you specifically guaranteed..""

""Oh come on. My hands were tied. Many factions were threatening to pull the country apart. I had to do what I thought best for the nation."" The Dictator knew it was a poor lie but he had to pretend to care about Gbenga's feelings.

The Chief was clearly unconvinced. ""Your Excellency, you've been my friend for years. I know you. If there is a mountain in front of you, you can go through it.""

The Dictator shook his head. ""No, no, I cannot go through a mountain. The most I can do is to go around it.""

""Thats still acceptable,"" Chief Gbenga said, lightening up for the first time. ""What do you propose I do?""

""Well, you could contest again in a re-run election.""

""Anh, oti o anh mi le se ru e I cant do that. I spent millions sponsoring myself for the past one, and the people clearly gave me their mandate.""

""Well a lot of people believe the mandate doesnt belong to you so all I can do is either have a re-run or let the transitional government take over.""

Chief Gbenga was stunned. ""But..""

""Gbenga, I have matters of the state to attend to, you have to leave now."" The Dictator firmly dismissed him, picking the bottle of Merlot once again to his dry thick lips. He glanced up once to see Chief Gbenga adjusting his agbada and cursing in Yoruba.

As soon as the figure went out of sight, the Dictator straightened up. ""Fucking politicians, thinking I'd let them run over the country again with their power hungry hands"" he thought again.

He picked up the phone and dialled a quick number. ""Put me through to Brigadier Sani Abacha."" He waited a while, and then the Brigadier came to the phone.

"Brigadier, initiate the Interim National Government. Tell them to remove Alhaji and find one Yoruba man to head it so there Yoruba people will get off my back about Chief Gbenga."

"Yes Your Excellency Sir. Any other thing?"

"Yes,I'll make sure you'll be the only officer to stay with them. You will receive the defence portfolio. At exactly six months, strike with your boys and put those politicians out of the villa."

Brigadier Sani Abacha on the other end was gently smiling. This was a dream come true. ""Sir, what if some senior officers challenge me?

"Thats a good idea. Prepare a memo notifying my Chief of Defence staff that all officers from the rank of Brigadier upward are compulsorily retired, except you of course."

The Dictator laughed. "Then bring it over here to be signed."

Brigadier Abacha laughed. ""Thank you friend. I knew you would never fail me.""

The Dictator nodded. "Anytime, Sani, anytime. We run this place now."

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 136 - El Divine ( Eleanya Eke Urum )

Nigerian Fiction Title 87

He was screaming now. He was screaming again.

She stood suddenly, knocking her chair over. She didn’t bother righting the chair. She marched over to the door leading to the adjoining room and slammed it open.

He sat there on the soft rug, in the middle of the padded room. Padded, so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

Both his palms were pressed flat against his ears, as if blocking out his own screams. The veins on his small forehead protruded from the strains of the screaming.

His screams were never the same. They sometimes scared her; she’d jump up from sleep, believing there was a banshee nearby. At times, it was more like a cry for help; those times, she’d just sit and stare and cry. But the intensity never wavered, strong and loud and he wouldn’t stop to take a breath.

Now, she walked up to him and tried to pry his hands from his ears… He was so strong, why was his mind so weak? “Stop, please, stop!”

He didn’t stop. His eyes were fixated on the ceiling, staring at nothing. The high-pitched screaming didn’t cease. At least, there was no fear of disturbing the neighbours. She had been forced to rent an apartment far from people after her husband disappeared. Her parents sent her money, but there was no point of exposing the ‘special child’ to their elite friends.

“Please stop. You’re giving mummy a headache.” She laughed a cynical, derisive laugh to herself; mummy lived with a permanent headache. “Please stop.” The psychologist advised her to talk to him like he could hear.

Tired of the cajoling and getting no reply, she snapped. Pushing him away, she jumped to her feet, pointing at him.

“You’re not my fault! You’re not my fault!” She shouted at the top of her voice; “I did nothing wrong!”

“You’ve caused me nothing but pain; I’m alone now! Alone, you hear? And it’s all your fault! Why didn’t you die? It would have saved me all this pain; saved you some pain too!”

These were thoughts she laboured with everyday but this was the first time they were vented aloud.

Realising the horror of her words, she immediately regretted them. It was quiet. He had stopped screaming. He just sat there, his palms still against his ears, but there was no screaming. Just tears coursing down his face.

“Baby. My baby. I’m so sorry. Mummy didn’t mean it.” She fell to her knees and gathered her seven-year baby into her arms. Her seven-year old who had never uttered the word: “Mummy.”

They sat there, crying together. Finding no relief to their pain. She, in a world where everyone refused to understand her plight. He, in a world, where he’d never understood anything.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 224 - Pemi

Nigerian Fiction Title 89

So they played hide and seek in the bush, ran with the village children to the stream, climbed trees and watched as old men smoked their pipes. Their mother hovered around fearfully, itching to pull them back from the people she saw as dirty and diabolic. But her husband won and she let them play.

Every morning they were bathed and dressed in their fine clothes, the girl who was eight wore little pink dresses with satin ribbons, the boy who was eleven, wore shorts and smart shirts. Everyday they returned home dirty and dusty, but exhilarated and happy.

One day the girl didn’t get up to play early enough and her brother went without her, by the time she caught up he was by in an abandoned farm with two of the older boys, where were the other children? She wondered. As she watched from the trees she saw that her brother was crying.

In the native dialect which both children had been taught from infancy the older boys were calling him a coward, they kept on saying ‘You must get us back our ball’.

She saw her brother look inside the old abandoned well, beside which they were standing, and shiver, one of the boys brought a rope ‘We will lower you inside’ they said, ‘it’s not deep, when you get the ball we will pull you back up’.

She was watching when they lowered him inside, her handsome brother who was always first in his class, she was watching when they dropped the rope and walked away, she heard the splash, or maybe she imagined it, but when they had gone she ran to the well to help her brother, the ball was floating on the surface, but he wasn’t there.

As fast as her little girl legs could carry her she ran back to the house, to tell anyone to help, as she entered the living room, out of breadth who did she see but her brother sitting between her parents watching television.

Happily she ran and hugged him, he didn’t tease her or call he flower face as he always did, she didn’t wonder, she was too happy, she watched him throughout the day, glad that nothing had happened to him. But before night the strangest suspicion had began to build up in her mind. What if he wasn’t really her brother?

The next day all the other children went to play. But she went to the well, because she wanted to know for sure that her brother wasn’t there. But he was, by now his body had risen to the surface. She could see his clothes a little darker in the darkened interior of the well. If only she had seen through the interloper at once, maybe he would be alive, guilt boiled up in her mind, and sorrow, that little heart was filled with sorrow and it never lifted again.

Life changed after that, she never told a soul, she watched as the stranger filled all their lives and caused rifts, how he told her father the bad news that caused him to have the heart attack from which he never recovered, how we was the one who ‘mistakenly’ tripped her mother when she was pregnant that she fell down the stairs, lost her baby and her womb, it was always him, he had something to do with every tragedy that came and the tragedies were many.

He left her alone, as she left him, perhaps he knew that she knew or perhaps not, but he left her alone, until the time when he didn’t.

She was to be married. And just before the wedding her fiancé went with her ‘brother’ to the bachelor party that had been arranged for him and he never returned, nobody ever knew how it happened but somehow they had been about six of them standing on the balcony of the hotel suite, someone remembered her brother whispering to her fiancé, others didn’t, but what everybody saw was her darling jump straight off the balcony and into pieces on the street.

She knew that she could never let it go, and later in front of the whole family, she confronted him ‘why did you kill him’, she asked.

Her parents were shocked, ‘of course your brother didn’t kill him’ they consoled her, ‘it was an accident’

‘He is not my brother’ she said and when she told them the whole story, they called a doctor and she was sedated. And the last thing she saw before she went under was his face, smiling.

When she awoke she pretended to have forgotten and while sympathizers came and went, she plotted. When she was ready, she went to her father’s room and took the gun he had bought and never used; she loaded it, went downstairs and shot her ‘brother’ dead.

After that it was a mental home, she slowly wasted away and when her parents had died, broken sad and alone, she died too. And there was nothing to remember that family by.

Years later when the village had become a town, and later a city, somebody bought the old farm with the old well. As they dug to lay the foundation piles, they found some bones, and when they were examined, they were found to be the bones of a young boy, between the ages of nine and thirteen.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 200 - Fearless ( Somi )

Nigerian Fiction Title 88

My body hurts but I'm used to it.

He's lying in bed,a dark heap; his sturdy chest rising and falling gently with each snore. He always sleeps whenever he surprises me with sex or corrects me. Tonight,he had done both. He looks so peaceful, so beautiful. Who wouldn't love someone like him? He has always known what was best for me. If not for his regular corrections and disciplining, I would probably have put myself in trouble. He keeps me in check. He surprises me with sex. Surprise sex, that's what he calls it. When i'm tired,not in the mood or when I blatantly refuse, he surprises me with it.

My friends don't understand. All they do is criticise. I know they're jealous, they just want what we have. The other day, they said they were having a party only for me to get there and find myself in some sort of intervention. They sat me down and blabbed about how Segun was abusing me and I was too blind to see it. They said he was raping me and hitting me and that I had to leave him before he killed me. They wouldn't listen when told them that Segun wanted the best for me and that he corrects me because he loves me or that he only surprises me with sex because it is his right as my husband to take it whenever he wants. What do they know? Chineye had the right to talk too. She went and changed her children's school without her husband's permission and he didn't even correct her. Titi has her own personal bank account and her husband has never deemed it fit to correct her. Thank God for Segun. The way he disciplines me keeps me from going astray. Spare the rod and spoil the child; you only discipline and correct those you love. Why should I take advice from wayward friends whose husbands don't love them enough to keep them on the right path?

So what if I end up in the ER every few weeks? At least every broken bone and black eye has taught me right from wrong. And so what if I had a miscarriage as a result of one of those corrections? At least he saved that child the horror of having a terrible person like me as a mother. So what if he surprises me with sex? A virtuous woman submits to her husband and puts his wants before her's. It's only normal. After all,he takes good care of me. And he proves to me that he's sorry whenever he goes too far with his discipline by buying me nice things. Just last week,he got me the Christian Louboutin shoes I wanted and brought them when he came to see me in the hospital. I don't even think I deserved those shoes; after all,I was wrong and I deserved the beating.

I love Segun and that's all that matters.

I better go and prepare dinner before he wakes up. I have to keep my loving husband happy.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 204 - Jennyphar ( Jennifer Abah )

Nigerian Fiction Title 129

While visiting old friends, someone served me amala to eat, then followed it up with a question“Did you miss amala?” while staring at me expecting a fairly detailed report. Like I was expected to reply in my best bedroom voice “Oh yes, I missed it so much…” dip my hand into the soft warm morsel and rub it all over my chest all while crooning softly, “Did you miss me too, Amala, did you?”

No, I don’t miss amala. I wasn’t even aware people ate amala out of luxury until I ran into members of the Oyo State Amala Lovers Association (A.L.A.) wearing badges that proudly said, “Associate Member (A.M.) A.L.A.” I shook my head and avoided making eye contact with them.

With the world being what it is now, smaller and faster, the question of what I miss becomes harder to answer when I can’t think of anything that is available in one place but not the other. Sure, some items are harder to find and more expensive to get, but they are almost never completely unavailable.

So I banked the question, like I do with everything I don’t immediately have a response to, and mulled on it, waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

A couple of days later, I was standing on the streets of Abuja, in front of the Banex Shopping Plaza, eating boiled groundnuts out of an old newspaper when a fight broke out across the street. I moved to a better vantage point and saw it was a policeman carrying a rusty rifle fighting a taxi driver.

As they wrestled each other to the ground in front of a largely uninterested crowd, I popped open another kernel of boiled groundnuts and stuffed its contents hurriedly into my mouth like a kid at the movies. And it suddenly hit me that I had stumbled upon the answer I was looking for.

Eureka!

So, things that exist in one place but not the other?

Policemen with ineffective weapons and taxi cab drivers fighting them.

And more importantly, boiled groundnuts.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 168 - TheVoid00

Nigerian Fiction Title 80

It was the last class of the day and after a few minutes it was clear our teacher was not coming. It was a rare occurrence when a teacher did not show up for class, one which everyone was eager to take advantage of.

Chairs scraped the terrazzo as my classmates set up impromptu games tables. Steady hums grew where boys had joined four desks together to play ‘table soccer’ involving origami goal-posts and ‘players’ fashioned out of bottle-tops that had to be flicked to ‘kick’ the little rolled up ball of paper. Others locked fingers in arm-wrestling tournaments or took up the chalk-board for a game of noughts and crosses which we called ‘X and O’. Girls perched on the edge of their friends desks in gossipy circles.

While I was content to have some free time to finish a novel I was reading, I was aghast at the number of rules everyone was breaking. We were not allowed to write on the chalk board unless asked by the teacher, we were not allowed to destroy the orderly rows of our desks and we were precluded from playing games or making noise outside of the designated break time at ten-thirty in the morning. If any teacher came into our classroom, the whole class would be punished!

Now, while I was the sort of girl who would not break the rules, I also had that Darwinian instinct for self-preservation. I did not want to feel the broad side of a ruler come down on my palm, or come away with dusty knees from being told to ‘kneel down and close my eyes’, so I sought some insurance.

I went over to the class prefect- an inferior choice, in my opinion- and voiced my concerns, “I think you should ask them to keep the noise down, so that we don’t get punished.”

The boy, Asi lisped a non-committal, “Everybody keep quiet!” before turning back to his table soccer. He needn’t have bothered speaking; the hum had become a buzz, akin to a market-place.

Not daring to raise my reedy voice above the din, I returned to my desk. Straight-backed and filled with righteous anger, I ripped a sheet of lined paper from my jotter and penned furiously ‘Names of Noise-makers’. I underlined my cursive script and covertly started printing the names of everyone who was talking loudly, including Asi’s. Somebody had to take responsibility.

“Hey!” the cry came from over my shoulder.

I hastily folded a corner of the paper over my growing list. It was too late. The hand belonging to the “Hey!” seized the paper from me.

The hand belonged to another recognisable figure. The boy who would exasperate teachers with his cheeky comments, the sort whose resilience showed in his ability to joke his way out of punishment. This boy is the resident ‘class clown’; the antithesis of the goody-goody, invariably considered ‘cool’ by the rest of the class. I did not like Chude very much. I liked him much less as his eyes scanned the list.

“Everybody, this girl has written a list of noise-makers!” Chude announced.

That got the class’ attention.

The noise rose as people asked, “Am I on it?” or threatened, “If I’m on that list” or whispered loudly, “Who begged her?”

I sat in my chair, arms folded defensively, trying to pretend that my heart was not hammering somewhere in my throat. The truth is that snake, the goody-goody does not often like confrontations. They have the teacher’s ear and thrive under the teacher’s protection. Without a teacher present, I was quaking in my sandals.

My desk was soon surrounded with people demanding answers. Although they loomed above me in a circle, I preferred to sit down. It was easier to hide that I was shaking that way.

“Look, I’m just writing it in case somebody catches us. I’m going to throw it away if nobody comes,” I kept my voice even

This did not placate people. Some people who considered themselves my friends questioned, wounded, “You wrote my name on the list, eh? Me?”

I probably deserve the next thing that happened. Obioma swore over and over again it was an accident. I don’t know whether to believe him. As people demanded answers at my desk, the cap of a Bic biro had suddenly hit me in the eye.

“Ow!” I cried, holding my hand over my eye and bending over. I must admit it hurt a little bit. Tears flowed freely from my good eye. I kept my hand over the one that was hit, getting up and stumbling to the bathroom to assess the damage.

I thought I heard an evil girl Yele mutter, “Good for her!” as Obioma and some spectators who were happier than they admit poured out of the class after me. Obioma seemed convincingly contrite, pleading, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to hit your eye!”

At the pastel green door to the ladies, just outside my class, the boys hung back while a few girls followed. We were enveloped in the smell of disinfectant. I hurried to the sink, wheeled the faucet open and splashed water on my eye, not caring that my uniform was splattered by the spray.

As I shook with self-pitying sobs, watched by some girls in the mirror, I saw how this could work to my advantage. My eye was red – only mildly irritated- but I kept my hand over my eye, my back still curved in pain.

My older sister was in Primary Six. The highest class in the school, the Primary Sixes were fearsome to us. Not only that, she was a house captain. Obioma would pay for flicking the cap of his pen in my eye! It would be doubly good if the teacher in my sister’s class took an interest in my tear-stained face.

I declared my intentions, “I’m going to report Obioma to my sister!”

Rapid whispers travelled to the boys in the corridor and I could barely stop myself from smiling as people sang to Obioma, “Den, den, den....” wagging their fingers in anticipation of the drama that was to come.

I marched out with fresh purpose into the corridor. Obioma’s pleas were more desperate. I revelled in it.

At the landing leading up to the Primary Six floor, the class started to hang back so that the noise would not attract any Primary Six teachers. Obioma was begging. Asi and some other of his friends joined him, sensing that if a teacher took an interest in the case the entire class could be punished.

I turned, like a villain in a superhero movie, my hand like a patch on my eye and said, “I’m going to do it and you can’t stop me.”

Then, I turned and walked up the short flight of stairs to the door of my sister’s class. I listened to the sound of them retreating to our class.

Taking a deep breath, I rapped hard on the door to my sister’s class, then eased it open and peered around it. My heart was in my mouth.

A sea of Primary Six faces were staring at my blotchy face. I looked away, towards the teacher, already regretting my decision.

My eyes met the familiar face of Mr. Q, my Math teacher a kindly, soft-spoken man. This gave me the courage to hurry up to him and whisper, “Can I talk to my sister please?”

He nodded his assent and I hurried out of the class, with my sister at my heels, her large eyes dripping with concern.

Alone in the empty corridor, fresh tears- purely of self-pity sprang. I recounted to her that I had been sitting being a diligent girl, writing names of noise-makers when I had been attacked by Obioma. My sister listened patiently, nodding her agreement in all the right places.

When I was done, she gave me a quick hug and said, “Sorry”.

Breaking away, she made as if to return to her class.

“Wait,” I called. Her hand dithered on the handle and an impatient look crossed her face.

“Can you-?”

That impatient look flitted across her face again. She was going to be writing her Common Entrance Exams in a few weeks and was eager to return to her lesson.

She came back to rub my back lightly, “Sorry, okay?” she said before disappearing into her class.

I was thoroughly filled with disappointment. I had expected her storm to my class like some avenging angel, flashing her prefect-ship badge, to punish Obioma or at least scold him.

Then, I was burning with shame. I could not return to class having reported Obioma knowing he would not be punished. It was bad enough that everyone in the class was annoyed with me; they would laugh at me if they knew that nothing had come out of my flouncing upstairs to report Obioma.

Dehydrated from all my needless crying, I sipped water from the water fountain and thought of what I could do. I could not stay in the stairwell forever. I toyed with the idea of not returning to class until school closed. I would still have to return to class the next morning and I couldn’t expect everyone to forget. I smarted with embarrassment, remembering my cocky announcement that I was going to report Obioma.

As I slowly returned to my class, defeated, I remembered a story my mother had told me as a child.

I opened the door and everyone turned, quiet. They stared fearfully, expectantly at me as though I was harbouring my sister and maybe, a teacher. I spotted Obioma looking very sorry for himself at his desk.

All eyes on me, I walked to him and said with a studied poker-face, “I didn’t report you. I forgive you.”

Obioma almost fell on his knees thanking me. The rest of the class looked stunned. So I was not as much of a goody-goody, tattle-tale as they thought.

I returned to my desk, straight-backed and imperial. There was still time to read my novel."

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 18 - RookieBee (Rukky Brume)

Nigerian Fiction Title 14