Kalimba Publishing ltd, a new contemporary publisher of novels in Nigeria is set to publish it's first book. Kalimba Books was formed in 2014 by 19-year old Chimmie Ijezie and 20-year old Chimee Adioha, an English undergraduate, to publish fictions and tell stories that matter.
Chimmie Ijezie, who is the CHief Operating Officer spoke with correspondence in Lagos. He said the book, which is a collection of short stories : I WILL GIVE MY SON A NAME, is set to be out as ebook first, August/ September and paperback launched November. The book is written by Nonso Uzozie, an English Graduate.
You can review an excerpt below:

Room 419


When I saw you that morning walking into the compound, a dejected figure, your shirt hanging on you like a dead banana leaf, I knew at once that Italy was not fair to you. I knew at once that your mother would be heartbroken to see you. I knew that you brought home a dead dream, a forlorn hope.
You shuffled lazily and stooped right before me, like someone who was possessed by a foreign demon. I stared hopelessly at you. I was disappointed. I also saw disappointment in your eyes too. I took your hand and lead you inside, where I offered you some food to eat. No, I soaked some garri in cold water for you. It was all I had. You ate in silence. I saw tears in your eyes. You were holding them back. I was fighting mine too.
“Nno, welcome home,” I finally said, and there were tears in my eyes. I didn’t wipe them, I let them flow. I wanted them to flow like river and wash away the pain in my heart.
You ate hurriedly. It was obvious you were very hungry; you had been hungry. I wanted to ask you what happened, how it happened and why it happened. But my tongue was dead.
“How is my mother,” you asked me.
I said nothing. There was nothing to tell you about your mother.
“I was lucky,” you said to me, though you were still staring on the floor in what seemed a shameful and empty gaze. “In short, I’m a hero,” you said and glanced at me, you shallow eyes hunting for solicitousness.
I was angry with you for calling yourself a hero. I felt like hitting your pout mouth. I felt like hitting it until you shut up and accept the ignominy before you; the shame and disgrace of returning from overseas with nothing but a dejected face and a hungry look.
Then you said to me. “Ike, it is not easy over there.”
I had heard that before, I had heard that many times. I did not want to hear it anymore. But I had to stare at you while you narrate your story. Perhaps yours was the summary of nemesis. Or maybe, the summary of bad luck, who knows? You told me how you spent almost your days in the Roman prison.
‘”What was your offence?” I asked.
“I was caught robbing,” you replied. “I was caught robbing in a train.”
“What? You were caught robbing in a what…? A train!”
¤

THAT WAS HOW you found yourself in Room 419, the room that was made of big iron bars and sturdy bricks. It had no window, and the iron door was so low you must bend so low before you walk through it. On the four corners of the walls were inscriptions in many languages, inscriptions of heartbreaking farewell in languages like Swahili, Igbo, Qunu, Acoli and many others languages that had been scribbled there by many other depressed Africans that had been put there for similar crimes. Nganga, the oldest inmate told you what Room 419 meant for the Africans. It was a place of no return. A place of no return! No African who had entered it ever lived to tell his story of his experience in the prison. He told you how he left Nairobi to make it in Italy, but how luck had left his side, and he had ended up in Room 419, only after five weeks of landing in Rome. He was ill-fated to have been caught in the act.
“Everyone here is ill-fated and cursed!” he told you a night before he was taken away, his voice gravelly and rasping, his voice floating through the tiny air in the cell and echoing sharply.
You wept bitterly. You should have managed; you should have managed in Nigeria with your life as jobless first class degree holder, but you were very unfortunate. Perhaps life became a negative omen the day you became so gullible and credulous to follow Alex to Italy for a “good” job.
I knew your story. You were not born with a silver spoon. But you made a good spoon for yourself. You were one of those who we could call decent, hardworking and humble; one of those who knew education was the key to success in a country like ours, where hardship was rooted, and had gone for it. Your mother always praised you before my mother. My mother was jealous of your mother because you were more brilliant and brainy than I was. And when they talked about boys who had brighter future they put you first on the list, like they had already visited a soothsayer and he had shown them our future in his magic mirror, the soothsayer dancing round and muttering enchanted words no one knew what they meant or how important they were. They were so common in Nigeria and made so much money. (I remembered when I told you, when I called you from Nigeria, about one of them that used to live on our street had moved to Lagos and now lived in the Island, with a big mansion to his name. I remembered how you had laughed on the phone and told me you were coming to buy yours soon).
“Ocheche your son is a brilliant boy,” my mother always said to your mother. “Graduating with a first class in Chemical Engineering is not a small thing.”
“I thank God for my son,” your mother would say.
“I wish Ike my son is that brilliant,” my mother would say.
No, I was not jealous that I was not brilliant. I was not angry that my mother was not proud of me. I was going to try my best to make use of that I had to succeed.
¤

THEN, you came to my house one day and told me how you met a God-sent, Alex, the man who would take you to Italy. You told me how you had met him. You were walking along a street, that day looking for job, when Alex came from nowhere with his flashy car. He followed you down the street and complimented your height and your good look.
“Thank you,” you said and kept walking. You disliked seeing men like him that go about the streets of Lagos intimidating people with their exotic lifestyles, you told me as you laughed.
“Do you stay around this neighborhood?” he asked you, as he pulled the car by the roadside.
“What do want from me?” You stopped. “I hope you don’t want to lie that you imported new goods, and want a distributor who can help you sell them? I have seen your type before. Look I was born and brought up here. I know those tricks.”
He laughed. It is a confident-trimmed laughter, you explained. That was the best way you could explain his laughter. I imagined him laughing, his hands drifting through his car keys, the click-clock sound of the keys jamming themselves swirling in the air. He came down from his car. His alien perfume came on the air, so pleasingly exotic and strong. His foreign designers’ jeans and t-shirt were simply astonishing. He was obviously rich and proud. It was written all over him, like madness was written all over Baba Tayo’s face, the madman that disturbed children on their way back from school, on our street.
“My name is Alex,” he offered a hand shake which you quickly received.
“Ocheche,” you said, holding his hand longer than necessary.
“You don’t look happy, Ocheche,” he said. “What is the matter?”
You hissed and took back your hand. He had suddenly reminded you of your condition. “My brother, no one is happy in Lagos without a job. You know the level now. This country is something else!”
“It’s a pity, my guy. May be we should look for a nearby bar and talk more.”
You hesitated before you got into the air-conditioned car. As he drove, you imagined you were the one sitting in the driver’s side, your hand drifting through the steering, steering and dodging potholes, and overtaking trailers and trucks.
In the bar he told you he worked with shipping company in Italy. This unnamed shipping company needed young African graduates who would be willing to work efficiently to take the company to the next level. Your service would be most needed because of your grade, he told you. Graduates with higher grades were paid better salaries.
“I have only worked with them for two years and…’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘I mean, look at me…I am living large! I have two houses in Lekki and one in Ikoyi.”
You stared at him with great anticipation, with a little desperation.
“Plus I’m planning to buy a land in Utako, Abuja. I want to build a three-storey building and rent it out. I would be a landlord soon,” he added. “I want you to join me over there next month.”
“I seriously would like to live this country, but I do not have money for passport and visa,” you replied, already starving to leave a country that bore you.
“I will help you do everything. But you have to pay me as soon as you make your first hit.” He was mute for a while, giving you time to think. Then he added, as if to entice you. “You too could be a landlord.”
That was all it had taken to cajole you. “Are you joking?” you asked because you didn’t want to seem easy to get though you knew he knew you’d accept it. Who would miss such an opportunity?
“Do I look like Ali Baba?” He laughed.
“Thank you so much. God will bless you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, brother. God has already blessed me.”
“Hah! I don’t know how to thank you,” you said.
“Forget it. I’m just like that. I’m too generous and you are lucky. I have done more than this for many people. I just can’t stop helping people. That is my life.” He took a sip from his bottle of Star.
“Thank you so much. God bless you,” you said.
“More drink, please,” he told the bar man, ignoring your thank-you. It was becoming too much, too infuriating.
You went home drunk that day. You danced and staggered around the house in merriment, singing and announcing your fortune to your mother and siblings. You came to my house that night too, drunk as you told me you’d soon be a landlord. I tried warning you against it but your mind was already made up. You said this was the chance, your one chance to become a millionaire. I tried to make you see that no one helped someone like that for no reason without hoping to gain something.
“He said I’d pay him when I start working.”
I still wasn’t convinced. Even when you asked who’d miss this kind of opportunity, I told you I would. It sounded suspicious, very devious and fishy. No one helped someone just like that, not someone you met through shady means. I tried explaining all these to you but they were to deaf ears. Your mind was made up and you even said once that you had a dream, and that you saw yourself in Rome.
“You don turn wizard?” I asked, and you laughed. I didn’t.
¤

ALEX SLEPT ALL THROUGH the journey. Suspicion began to creep into you when after the flight landed in Milan, he hardly answered the question you asked him like, how long it took him to get the job, what you’d really be doing, like how much would you be paid, where would you live...
The first two weeks Alex gave you what he called orientation. This orientation is to go round the streets and to watch how some of his boys rob. Then at home, in his house of two bedroom apartment shared by six boys who were working for him, boys who had dumped their Nigerian universities degree certificates to be deadly street hunters, you all sat round to count the money that was robbed from the people; you guys talked about how you had shot some because they were stubborn to let go. The good job was there before you—the good job that brought you to Italy. You could tell that you have one choice: to be a street hunter too.
Your first assignment was a tough one; you had been successful however though, and you enjoyed the proceeds. The second and the third brought much more than you expected. However, the fourth that you expected would be “piece of cake” was what took you to Room 419. You were to rob in a train. So with your disguised face of an old man you joined the train, your heart pounding as it did every time you were to rob. You were very unfortunate. The first woman you pointed a gun to her face was a police officer. You shivered when you saw the insignia on her shoulder. When she did not move you knew bad luck was lurking. In few seconds you were wrestled down by a huge man from behind, his large hand imprinting its spot all over your face. He overpowered you, his weight clasping you to the floor. Your gun left your hands as easily as it had entered. It happened so fast you thought you were in a trance. Your vision faded and you fell into a deep obscurity and blackness.
When you woke in a strange room, you knew you were in the Ofe Okro, Okro soup. You have handcuffs on your wrists. The first face you saw was the man who had wrestled you down. He was a police officer too; a malicious-looking white man who kept swearing to deal with all the black men in the street for being such a nuisance.
“Do you speak English?” He had asked you.
You nodded helplessly.
“You have come to ruin our country?”
You did not speak.
“I want you to speak!” he barked.
You gawked at him, with the heart of enmity. If you were in Nigeria you would have asked for a paper to make a statement and rave with high grammar which he would not understand.
You would not speak. Alex had warned you never to, if you were ever caught in such a situation. “They’d release you immediately if you don’t say anything. They would have no evidence against you.”
That didn’t seem to work however; you noticed this when you heard him discus with another male policeman on what they were to do with you, whether send you to jail. It was then you knew that Alex lied.
The policeman turned back at you. “You are one those who migrated through the Malta?” he asked.
You sighed. “Please, I want to go back to my country,” you pleaded.
“What country? Africa?”
You wanted to tell him that Africa was not a country, but a continent. Instead, you nodded your head.
“You are going to jail!” he announced as if he had the power to send you to jail right away, as if it was already a written verdict that any black man caught in any crime should be sent immediately to prison.
¤

TWO DAYS LATER you were found guilty of robbery and public assault in a district court. Your fear grew the night when Nganga was taken away. You know it would soon be your turn. You prayed. You asked God to come to your aid even though you thought God has turned His back on you because you had on him.
One night you heard some footsteps. Soon you heard the prison gate open. You shut your eyes. The hand was cold on your arm. Your mind was already standing before you. You thought of your mother, your brothers; you would never see them again.
“You are just lucky,” a voive said.
You opened your eyes. Ngaga smiled at you.
“Let us go, fast!” he breathed. “If we are caught we are dead. We are leaving this country tonight.”
You looked at him; his eyes were full of fear, his breath speaking death. You wiped the tears in your eyes. The world was red in your eyes.
¤

“I TELL YOU, life is not smooth over there,” you said as you scooped the last garri from the plate.
I said nothing.
“How is my mother?” you asked again.
This time, I replied. “She now lives in the village.”
“What?”
“She couldn’t pay the house rent.”
You kept the spoon on the table and wept.
The next day we went to the village. You were dressed on my best clothes, having shaved your hair that cast failure on your face. Your mother was pealing melon in front of the house when we walked into the compound. She stood up to welcome us with a smile. Her hug was brief. I saw in her eyes certain agitation and suspense. I saw on her face a woman who saw less than she expected. Perhaps she had expected to see you coming out from a Jeep, you hand flinging with keys. Perhaps she had expected to see more than five suitcases, not this small waterproof bag you held on your left hand as you shuffled through torn Naira note to pay the okada man. And suddenly she turned her face away and said.
“All is not well.”
You shook your head. “It was not what I expected, Mama,” you said. “It is not easy in oyibo land. But I will still make you proud.”
“I’m proud of you, son. It’s not over yet. Come in and have something to eat.”
We went into the house. She brought a pot of boiled yam on a tray for us, to eat with red-oil. We ate in silence. I was wondering why your mother said she was proud of you. I did not believe her, because I knew my mother would not be proud of me if I was in your shoes. Maybe if she knew about your crimes and activities in Rome, she wouldn’t be. I wasn’t going to tell her, I remembered you forcing me to promise you. I always keep my promised. I wasn’t going to.
Shortly your mother came back with an envelope. “Someone brought this letter last week,” she said.
Your name was boldly written on the white envelope. You opened it and read through. You nearly pushed the tray of boiled yam on the ground. I nearly slapped you for doing so. Do you know how hunger dey wire me, I wanted to shout before you screamed, “Praise the Lord! Take and look, my friend. Ike, look! God is good,” you said to me. I snatched the letter from you and read through it, my eyes glancing at the large and carefully typed writing. Who had taken time to type letter to you?
I read through, and read and read and re-read till I was tired of reading. It was indeed good news. It was an appointment letter from an Oil Servicing company in Port Harcourt. You screamed as if something had bitten you. I screamed too. Your mother danced around the house. We sang and danced with her. The world was blue in our eyes. The soothsayers had been right after all.