[size=15pt][center]I[/center][/size]

I do not like the city,
No. The smelly exhaust vapors make me sick; the whole city is strewn with heaps of foul-smelliing rubbish, the little houses with pigeon holes for windows perch precariously on the many man-made and natural gutters filled with all sorts of debris oozing a gut wrenching odor.

The ubiquitous street urchins dart around, laughing loudly and talking at the same time, for them the ways of the city are the ways of life. The market women swing their hips in tune to the eerie music of the city, the hawkers dart around the metal contraptions on the port hole ridden roads.

"Broom fifty naira," he shreaks at you as saliva sprays in all directions. He pushes his wares directly in your ace, grinning sheepishly and praying the god of the city to make you buy his wares. Tired of your nonchalance, the ill-clad sickly looking fellow hops away on thin legs looking for the next bored motorist to harass. Everything from clothes to dead rats, even urine is sold in the city.

The ways of the city are weird. As early as 3.00am, the people pour out in large numbers like insects from a hole, struggling to catch any available space on the molue. The conductor dangles precariously on the door yelling obscenities at no one in particular as the mammy wagon chugs laboriously into the heart of the city.

The young men of the city struggle endlessly for the few existing menial jobs in exchange for a few wrinkled naira notes. The young women are gaily dressed; they love the ways of the city, love to hear the cursing, and the weird monotonous music blaring from the loud speakers of the many road side disc jockeys. Best of all, they love to watch the fights, lapping their hands and cheering the victor while booing the vanquished mercilessly. The older people shake their heads in despair; there is little they can do, afterall it is the ways of the city.

poetic, and rank with morbidity. I LIKE IT.

This ma dear is reaaaally good!
I like the use of Imagery.
Beautiful!

[size=15pt][center]II[/center][/size]

The madness of the city is intoxicating; the drivers yell obscenities, sweariing by the god of their ancestors to deal with everybody and nobody. Meanwhile, most of the passengers pray the madness to continue so they can catch a few precious hours of sleep. Even the gun-totting policemen are not left out of the madness that is the city, they cruise at break neck speed through the crawling traffic, sirens blazing and cracking their whips at the cars that dare stand in their way.

The bleary eyed clerk reaches his office and makes an immediate dash for the attendance register. He looks at the clock which reads 8.30am; he wrties 7.00am and walks lazily to his desk. He prepares himself for the day's activity that includes giving every visitor that calls the official excuse of 'not on seat' for his boss he has not seen for three weeks.
He clears his desk and puts his head for a long nap to wait patiently for the clock to strike 4.30pm when he can then head for home after a 'hard' days work that in most cases translates to no work at all.

In the evening, the people of the city jostle for the available space on the molue. Sweat-grimed bodies glue to each other as the conductor, satisfied that his bus is overcrowded to bursting, begins to go from place to place poking a grubby fist in tired faces until an even dirtier ten-naira note is pressed into his hands. He hands out a five naira note to two small girls sitting in a corner;
"make una marry una sef,"
the girls stare in confusion, the conductor glares and the girls change their mind about handing back the money.

the people simply love the molue, it is the avenue that turns the laborer into an enthusiastic journalist as he attempts to inform and misinform his equally illiterate but avid listener on the latest news in the city.
The molue is the best medium of obtaining the exagerated details of the latest happenings in the city.

The people love the molue, for it is a hospital on wheels. Even drugs to open the blind eyes and raise the dead are sold there. The salesman shouts himself hoarse promoting his cure-all wonder drug and promising instant death to those who refuse to buy. The policeman is not left out of the molue; he proudly adjusts his beret as if to emphasise his 'staff' status much to the chagrin of the conductor. For the beggar, only the passengers of the molue can save his life as he stretches his begging bowl, casting furtive glances in many tired directions hoping for a tidbit here and there.

[center][size=15pt]III[/size][/center]

The city never ceases to amaze me. It's high rise buildings jostle for space with the dirtiest and crummiest slums most villages cannot even boast of. The skyline is a myriad of wires hopelessly tangled around each other. From the choiciest of homes to right beneath the bridege, all serve one basic purpose, shelter to the people of the city.

The problems of most people on a wet sunday morning is not how to worship but where to worship. On every street corner resides all manner of churches whose sole purpose is to empty the pockets of the faithful through all manner of offerings; peace offerings, building offerings, alabaster offerings even walking or sitting offerings are demanded for in the name of God. All types of mind boggling names assault the senses as i seek the cheapest offering-paying church.

Finally i choose one, the Followers of Peter Bible Church plc a.k.a. Christ's footstool. It is cleverly tucked between rows of shanties in a seedy part of the city. Soon as i expect, i am smothered with a lot of 'brotherly love' and affection i know would only last as long as i continued to part with a juicy chunk of my miserable salary.
I vaguely remembered the last church i had attended the previous sunday. The elderly women of the church who called themselves Grandmothers of the Order of St. Timothy had held their annual bazaar, actually the church held one bazaar or the other every sunday. I ended up treking home that day because i had to part with all the money i came with to escape the wrath of God as pronounced by the pastor on whoever did not give his widow's mite.
"The widow gave all," he had said.

Even the rastafarian, dirty-looking beach prophets are not left out of the spiritual charade. I had watched as the men used horsewhips to drive out the devil from a hapless man, the efficacy of which i cannot tell. Only the previous week, a woman had drowned as she attempted to wash off the spirit of lying in the raging sea.

Wow, i luv ur work davidylan, good stuff!

Well done David-dylan. Like Neo said, it sounds like poetry, it's like you use the words to paint a picture.

Seun, am I allowed  to print this thing out?

David, what are you doing in term of publication? At least try and copyright the thing, it's inexpensive.

reminiscent of 'the beautyful ones are not yet born'

youre gud dude sure u wrote this urself its pretty interesting but no rily understandable by all u see hen communicating it is not complete for a person 2 send a message the reciever must encodeso try to write for the understanding of someone that stopped school at primary six its important . other than that ----------bravo

Davidylan is that all?PLzzz more of this.It really made my morning today.More plzzz

At least try and copyright the thing, it's inexpensive.

Any original work you create is automatically copyrighted by law in Nigeria. Copyright is automatic.

The short story is good.
The imagery is memorable.

I will look out for your prose.

Have you published any book?

Well done.

this is good stuff. two thumbs up (sorry ebert). more please.

[center][size=15pt]IV[/size][/center]

Indeed religion is the opium of the people of the city. Father Nweke, the resident priest of St. Augustines Catholic church, has seen a rapid rise in the number of  parishioners. Only 3 years ago, the entire church was made up of Nwoluma, his faithful servant, Nwoluma's wife and their reluctanct eight children. Today St. Augustines boasts of a three hundred strong membership and rising daily. The end result is that Father Nweke, once a poor farmer from his village has grown to be one of the most well fed men on his street. What with the goats, chickens and yams Nwoluma has had to ferry into the parish kitchen every confession day, Father Nweke is indeed living the life of a man of God. It is hard to see the women of the city refuse to respond to Father Nweke's sunday sermons imploring his parishioners to bring their choicest goods to the Lord. Infact it is begining to seem the God of St. Augustine has a very large appetite, at this rate the people of the city would have nothing to eat themselves. Wasnt the Lord supposed to be merciful?

Nwoluma's wife sells kolanuts and kaikai, the local gin under the mango tree infront of the parish. It is under this same tree that Father Nweke, in his white cassock turned brown, entertains visitors on his rocking chair. At sun set, the old men sit around the tree, munching kolanuts and rinsing their toothless gums with kaikai,leering at the young women passing by on their way to the public tap.
"Nweze has taken a new wife," Nwodim is Nwoluma's aged uncle. Hardly anything I'm jobless without his noticing.
The old men nod their heads in agreement, their attention fixed on the kolanuts.
"this is good kolanut,"
"i am glad you like it," Nwoluma's wife smiles sheepishly.
"I buy it from the next town 20 miles from here."
"Chineke! That far?" Chieze holds the kolanut to the fading sun, squinting as if inspecting it for blemishes.
"there is nothing you cannot find in the city,"
"true," father Nweke breaks his dignified silence for the first time. Nwodim frowns his face and glares at Ade the aged motor mechanic.
"Why must you smoke that pipe here? Can't you see father Nweke here?"
Ade looks away, puffing hard at his tobacco pipe.
"The Lord has forgiven him," Father Nweke is busy staring in another direction. All eyes turn to that direction just in time to see a buxom lady in nothing but a skimpy wrapper walk up the path with a pail of water neatly balanced on her head.
"hmmm, Jehova has need of her," Father Nweke pushes himself out of his chair and paces around the tree.
"Nweze's new wife?" Nwodim's astonishment is plain.
"You didnt tell me that was his new wife?"
"what have i been saying since?"

wow. things are really speeding up. reads like something you pre-wrote. its getting better as u go along.

nope, i pre wrote I - III. IV i just thot up a few minutes ago. I'll think up the rest of the storyline as i go along. that may be a way to finish the tale anyway.

nice stuff u got going.

Ha, now i know why u criticize people. U r a good writer. U know alot about writing. Ohhhh i see

Good work man. MORE!

Amazing stuff!

hmm, no hating or anything sha(cos lawd knows i cant write this good), but this story kinda looks familiar to me tho! well, good work Davidylan

"I buy it from the next town 20 miles from here." nwoluma's wife said

"Chineke! That far?" chieze answers.

dont u think chieze will know how far the next town is?

Neoteny:

"I buy it from the next town 20 miles from here." nwoluma's wife said

"Chineke! That far?" chieze answers.

don't u think chieze will know how far the next town is?

Yeah, the idea is that Chieze, an older generation citizen of the city, is well aware of how far the next town is. He is only expressing his amazement that Nwoluma's wife goes that far to buy good kola.

[center][size=15pt]V[/size][/center]

From the local councilor to the taxi driver, everyone in the city claims to be a big man. Gold teeth, flowing agbada, four wives, a pot belly, 2 rickety taxi cabs, plenty of malnourished children, one molue, all are the paranphenalia of office of the big man. The jobless graduate is a big man, his scruffy tie hanging like  a rope around his neck, shoes with gaping holes as he waits in the sun for his popular mode of transport, the molue. The rickety van pulls up and he scrambles for a front seat.
"Oga pay me my money," the conductor himself is also a big man.
"Do you know who i am?" the graduate glares back, years of frustration from fruitless job searches showing on his wrinkled skin.
"Oga, that one no konsain me,"
"I have a masters degree," saliva sprays in all directions.
"I have been to Oxford, Canada, USA," the graduate thumps his chest as the boy nearest to him attempts to help him cover the gaping hole in his shoes.
The driver glares at him, he himself is also a big man.
"Sharap! Na your degree go belefull me today?"
Behind the driver, Alhaji Big man adjusts his expensive agbada, flashing a smile that reveals his gold teeth.
The graduate mumbles some intelligible words and gets off the molue, walking away briskly.
The conductor glares at him in derision, shaking his fist at the departing graduate.
"That is the problem with boys of nowadays," another pot bellied big man puts down his newspaper.
"True," alhaji big man hands the conductor a crisp twenty naira note.
"Now in my days as a banker, we always left the change with the conductor." pot belly big man inches towards alhaji big man.
"Aha, i remember when i just came back from the hajj. Was it my 15th or 19th hajj?"

City side streets are shut down every saturday for one owambe party or the other. Either the big man is celebrating the purchase of his new meaningless chieftancy title or another is celebrating the birth of yet another hungry mouth to feed, weekends are for the big man. Rented clothes and shoes are put on display, goats and cows are slaughtered and cartoons of beer litter the entire venue. The musicians churn out new songs chanting the praises of their latest big man client.  Drummers and praise singers crowd the venue, newly minted notes are sprayed all over the stage as the big man dances elegantly with his numerous wives, his children are nowhere to be seen. Malnourished children are not meant to ruin the big man's day.
It does not matter if the big man has no car, lives in a rented house, can barely send his kids to school or not, the big man is an enigma to himself.

things happen in the city