SNUFFBOX
Clifford was confused; and because he hated being confused, he was angry with himself. How could he have misplaced it?
He remembered vividly: upon arrival to the farm, he’d sat at the foot of the palm tree and produced it from the right pocket of his white shorts, which had turned different shades of brown from the last three farming seasons. He’d poured a portion from it into his left palm from where he fed his nostrils generously with the tobacco powder – scooped with his bronzed right thumbnail – in preparation for the day’s job…
He walked to the foot of the palm tree – the exact spot he last used it – but there was no sign of it. He moved round the palm tree in a frenzy squeezing the pockets of his shorts simultaneously. It wasn’t there.
He scanned through the many mounds of earth he’d just made – for yam planting – on the plot of land, but he still couldn’t find it.
“Hian!” he let out in frustration, “what is this? Where is my snuffbox, bikonu?”
He was sweating profusely under the blazing Enugu sun.
The corner of his eyes caught a stupid fowl scattering a mound in search of insects at one end of the farm. For want of a murder weapon, he automatically grabbed his legendary hoe, lunged after the foul, and fell pitiably in his tracks. The startled foul cried loudly and fled.
Clifford’s fury soared as though a nut loosened in his brain, and he began to destroy the beautiful mounds he’d made, in search of his snuffbox. Before he could stop himself, half of them were levelled.
He sat down in resignation on tilled earth; the white snuffbox was right there staring back at him from a leave-scar on the palm tree!
***End***
Hello guys, I entered for the Etisalat flash fiction with the story above and it was approved!
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